


Soft Disturbances in the Dead-Fall

by Cas_tellations



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, End of the World, Existentialism, Falling In Love, Getting Back Together, Heavy Angst, Huge thank you/shoutout to Lynn - my incredible beta, M/M, POV Keith (Voltron), Pretentious, Stars, Tattoos, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-06-28 23:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15717060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cas_tellations/pseuds/Cas_tellations
Summary: "You were always just a paradox, nothing more than an enigma contained within a human skin suit. You know that, right? I tried as hard as I could but it was as if you were a figment of my imagination."After running from his past, Keith Kogane finds himself carving out a home in an old, run-down hotel. For years, he quietly does his penance. But eventually time slows down and his past catches up to him.





	1. Prologue: As the Sun Went Down

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about this fic for years. like, literally four years ago I was sitting in a goddamn tree with my sketchbook drawing some birds and just -- y'know, thinking of stories inside my head like every other kid does. I should really dig up the notes I made back then, but I remember vividly thinking;
> 
> _"holy shit wouldn't it be cool to live in a castle-hotel thing and to look at the stars at night out in the middle of nowhere"_
> 
> I originally meant to write it as a Dan and Phil fic, but those characters didn't really seem to fit what I had in mind, so I had to wait until I found the right fandom.
> 
> Which now, I have. 
> 
> Someone needs to stop me from rambling. This thing should end up being about 10 chapters, and each chapter (after the super short prologue) will be 3-6k in length. I'm not setting a super strong posting schedule but I'll try my best to post a new chapter every friday! 
> 
> Anyway -- enjoy the fic!

 

 

_ “And, when he shall die; _

_ Take him and cut him out in little stars, _

_ And he shall make the face of heaven so fine, _

_ That all the world will fall in love with the night, _

_ And pay no worship to the garish sun.” _

 

_ -William Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet (Act III, Scene II) _

Prologue: As the Sun Went Down

 

Every black-and-white news station that he tunes into at the hotel spews words of the end of the world as if it is already upon them, instead of simply a looming darkness on an already de-saturated planet earth. 

 

Some people are terrified of it, going mad in the streets and breaking down in churches, praying and pleading to their non-existent god for some sort of salvation. Many people have quit their jobs, spending days at home with their families, bidding for time before the inevitable. Law enforcement has their hands full trying to keep up with the sudden increase in petty crime. 

 

And don’t get him wrong - Keith loves conspiracy theories as much as the next guy, but personally he thinks that the whole  _ end of life as we know it  _ thing is complete and utter bullshit. 

 

He reads the subtitles on the screen out of habit more than anything else, taking in the state of the world through a shitty television screen. He settles back against the pillows that he had propped up against his headboard, and picks at the peeling label on his beer bottle with deft fingernails. Headphones are plugged into his cracked phone, blaring  _ Minor Threat  _ over the news broadcaster’s tinny voice.

 

The room is small, but it’s a place to call home. The hotel is old and fading, falling into bankruptcy with every passing day, but the owner refuses to close down, and Keith doesn’t bother him too much about it because without the hotel he wouldn’t have a home  _ or  _ a job. They usually get busier when the summer rolls around anyway - tourists flock to the castle-turned-hotel in the middle of nowhere to catch even the most fleeting glance at the Perseids meteor shower. 

 

His beer has long since turned lukewarm, but Keith swallows it down anyway, the flavour bursting across his tongue like a goddamn symphony. 

 

_ "Organised riots break out in California after the government refuses to reroute money back into Climate Change funds. Temperatures reach record highs in central America, bring close to a dozen people to their deaths… The more imminent danger however, lies in what people have dubbed ‘the end of humankind’ or, as scientists like to call the phenomenon-" _

 

The power goes out, plunging Keith into darkness. He pulls off his headphones, the hardcore punk music fading into an endless backdrop of croaking frogs and screaming cicadas. He counts to five with a frown etched across his face. Any second now-

 

_ “KOGANE!”  _

 

There it is. This is precisely why Kolivan has bothered to keep him around. Keith makes sure that the electricity stays on and that the plumbing keeps working. Sometimes he even fixes a car here and there, and Kolivan lets him stay in one of the rooms at the hotel, and sometimes even offers him a ride into town if they’re both going the same way. It doesn’t go beyond that, and Keith doesn’t mind that fact in the slightest. He has all the freedom he could ever need, and never has to worry about where he’s going to sleep every night. 

 

He chugs down the rest of the beer and pulls on a tattered flannel over his tank top, slamming the door behind him as he stalks down the long hallway towards reception. He has lived here for so long that even in the darkness he’s able to navigate with ease. 

 

“Third time this week.” Kolivan notes with more than just a hint of a growl in his voice when Keith walks past him in the reception and lounge area. 

 

Keith shrugs, “shoulda hired an actual electrician.” He drawls, slipping behind the counter and grabbing the flashlight that Kolivan hands him. 

 

Kolivan shoots him a look that gets swallowed up in the darkness. 

 

The basement isn’t  _ nice  _ by any extent of the imagination. It’s crawling with mice and the definition of a  _ floor  _ isn’t held to very high expectations, it’s just bunch of slabs of plywood on top of dust and sand. He has to duck his head to make sure that he doesn’t accidently get impaled on the sharp ends of the rusty nails that stick down through through the floorboards. 

 

He makes his way over to the electricity circuit and flips the master breakers off and then on again. Yellow light filters through the floorboards and he catches Kalivan's muffled cries of triumph. 

 

He’s talented at breaking things, ripping items and hearts to shreds and then leaving before he has to deal with the fall out. He has shattered more windows than he can count at this point, and holds huge amounts of regret within his chest. He carves destruction into the mountains he walks across. 

 

He doesn’t even pretend to be stable. 

 

But he can fix things. 

 

The little things, mind you. He can turn something off then back on and hope that it works. He can get even the most damaged cars but up and running, and even though he hates it more than he hates shitty pop music, he can fix a clogged toilet. So Kolivan lets him stay, and Keith- 

 

-Keith tries to fix things, to do penance for all that he had left behind. 

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

His zune is broken, rendering it nothing more than an ancient relic. He has dreams of fixing it one day, he has dreams of listening to it’s music again, like he did when he was six and living out his last year with his Mom and Uncle, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk surrounded by chalk, feet in the gutter, eyes trained on the way that the trees in the ravine across the street swayed in the light autumn breeze. 

 

The zune sits in a cardboard box under the bed now, tucked in with countless other memories. The box is faded and ripped apart in several places, but it holds together well enough, all things considered. He packed that box eighteen years ago, when he was a child with his nose stuffy and eyes leaking tears. 

 

It’s too hard, now, to go rummaging through his past. So the box stays tucked under his bed and the zune stays broken and his phone has more songs on it anyway so he shouldn’t feel sad about that.

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

The hotel is cold. Forty years ago it had been built up from the ruins of a castel, the stained glass windows and ivy-covered stone paying homage to what it used to be. During the third world war it had been used as a hospital of sorts for wounded soldiers trying to find their way home. Myths of ghosts and love and loss wind throughout each and every corridor. It used to be a tourist attraction, people would flock to the plainly-named  _ Westmoor Hotel _ to search for ghosts and to watch the stars long through the night. 

 

The clock chimes midnight and Keith rolls onto his side, shoving a hand under his pillow and staring at the thin curtains billowing into his room, courtesy of the breeze from outside. 

 

His eyes catch on the stars in the sky, and he counts them through the window as he waits for him mind to slip into a dreamless sleep. 

 

On the news, they speak of world-ending events. They speak of time running out and of all the ways in which society has become so desperately damaged over the decades. It makes Keith glad that he was able to get out of the city when he did - it makes him glad that he had been able to pluck up the courage to carve out a home and a  _ life  _ somewhere that all of his actions didn’t have consequences. 

 

He loves conspiracy theories but he doesn’t believe in the end of the world.

 

Once upon a time, a few years ago, he would have believed in it wholeheartedly. He knows that he would have been one of those destructive people roaming the streets, yelling lies as if they are truths. But now, all he wants to do is right some wrongs and live the life that he’s always wanted but never though he could have. 

 

Maybe the entire reason for not believing in an end is that he finally has something to live for. 

 

It’s a shame then, that time is coming to a close.

 

 

 


	2. All I Want is This Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the fuck.” Keith’s heart beats so hard against his ribs that he wouldn’t be surprised if Shiro could hear it. “Are you doing here.”

 

“You’re a first class idiot, I hope you know.” 

 

Keith rolls his eyes. “For the last time,  _ Pidge,  _ I will not let you fuck around with my bike.” 

 

“I would  _ fix  _ it!” She says indignantly, peering at Keith through her oversized glasses. 

 

“It’s not broken.” 

 

They’ve had this conversation before. Multiple times, in fact. Pidge has  problems with keeping her hands off of other people’s tech - be a laptop, phone or even a goddamn motorcycle. Fuck, if she found out Keith still had a zune she would most likely have a  _ heart attack _  while trying to get it from Keith _.  _ She always gets it into her mind that she can make things  _ better  _ by adding more bells and whistles. But Keith saw what happened to Kolivan’s truck after Pidge had her way with it. That thing went faster than a jet and then caught on  _ fire  _ halfway into town. Her fancy tech was in no way compatible with real vehicles. There’s no way in hell that he’d let her near his bike without strict supervision. 

 

“One day me and Hunk are gonna steal it and fix it properly.” Pidge grumbles. She’s sitting cross-legged on top a high stool, back pressed up against one of the barn’s dusty walls. 

 

Keith chides. “You mean Hunk and I-”

 

Pidge cuts him off before he can get any further, “okay, english  _ drop out. _ ”

 

“ _ And  _ you’d kill it. Keep your filthy paws off of my pride and joy, kid.” Keith wipes the grease off his hands and onto his ripped blue jeans. He pats the bike’s handlebars affectionately, “don’t worry,” he murmurs, “I’ll keep you safe from that gremlin.” 

 

“Hey!” Pidge shrieks. 

 

Keith grins at her, tugging the loose ponytail from his hair and reaching over to grab his helmet off of it’s hook on the wall. “Take care of your goats, gremlin.” 

 

As if on cue, one of the newborn goat kids leaps up onto a bale of straw with wobbly legs. Pidge’s face lights up, and she climbs down from her perch, approaching the small animal slowly. “Where’s your parent, you absolute fucking disaster?” She coos gently, her voice mixed in with a certain degree of undeniable love. 

 

“Don’t swear around babies.” Keith says, pushing up the kickstand on his bike with his heel and wheeling it past Pidge and the tiny goat. 

 

“You’re one to talk.”

 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Keith says, “I speak eloquently. Like goddamn priest.” 

 

Pidge chokes on a laugh. 

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

Keith had found the 2014 harley-davidson breakout bike in a junkyard two cities over. He had fixed it up all by himself, after going to the library and awkwardly filling out the form for a  card so that he could check out armful upon armful of motorcycle repair and maintenance manuals,  he’d stolen half the parts he needed to fix it, but that meant that he had bought the other half so really, it’s not that bad.

 

It’s sleek, mostly clean, and it works like a charm. 

 

And it goes  _ fast.  _ It hadn’t, at first. In fact, at first it had barely moved at all, and that was  _ after  _ he’d fixed it up to the best of his abilities. In the end he had to go to Hunk, the resident mechanic that alternated between fixing everybody in a 50-mile radius car’s, and cooking at the only bakery in town. He comes by the hotel regularly, both in order to work and to see his friends.

 

Because unlike Pidge, Keith actually trusts Hunk to not completely fuck up his bike. 

 

Hunk had been able to get it truly up and running though, and now it speeds down the freeway smoothly. The wind whips through the long strands of hair that Keith hadn’t tucked up into his helmet. It catches on his jacket, causing it to balloon out behind him. 

 

The harley is completely different to the hoverbikes that Keith used to ride. The hoverbikes had been built specifically for navigating tight corners and accelerating quickly. They were built to go fast, not to keep the driver alive. They were built for thrill-seekers and for adrenaline junkies. Keith had always felt at home upon them. It wasn’t  _ safe,  _ per se, but there was definitely a sense of  _ security  _ there. 

 

The Harley holds within itself a very different sense of security. For one, it’s much steadier. It’s tailored to Keith’s body and it responds to him like it’s just an extension to his limbs. It feels  _ friendly,  _ and more than that, it feels like  _ his  _ and his  _ only.  _

 

He was the one who brought it back from death, and in a way, it returns the favor. 

 

He loves it’s sleek speed, the ease at which it accelerates, the lightness and the pure, unrelenting  _ freedom.  _ Of course, the hoverbikes were amazing, too. But they were unsteady and dangerous and at some point there keith had only ridden them because of the promise of fame and fortune. He had started out as just another one of the stupid, reckless adrenaline junkies, racing through the streets of whichever goddamn fascist city he ended up in, tearing up flower-covered yards and causing as much mayhem as he possibly could. 

 

Maybe it was the people the he met, that showed him how beautiful life could be. Or maybe he just grew up. 

 

Now, Keith flies down the highway, eyes alight with happiness. 

 

Westmoor Hotel is located in nature’s crossroad. Behind it, mountains stretch towards the sky, covered with underbrush and teeming with wild animals. Keith used to dream about climbing to the very tops of those mountains and screaming his name so loud that all the world could hear him. He’d gotten pretty close one day - he’d packed a lunch and set out on foot. He’d walked for several miles before he realised that he had forgotten to bring a bottle of water with him. 

 

If it had been a hundred years earlier, he wouldn’t have thought twice before drinking from one of the many streams that wind down the mountain, but now the pollution is so bad he may as well just swallow a gallon of arsenic. The outcome would be the same. He had turned back before he made it to the top. 

 

To the left of the Westmoor Hotel is a vast forest, and to the right are miles upon miles of abandoned farmland. Directly in front of the hotel, is the highway. It stretches straight all the way from the front doors of the hotel for twenty miles, before turning off, branching into several smaller roads. 

 

There isn’t much in the way of backroads. The highway leads from the hotel to the town and then there’s another road that starts back off towards the nearest major city. But the abandoned farmland holds many secrets, and Keith has made it a habit to follow it’s small, dirt roads whenever he’s headed back to the hotel from a visit into town. 

 

‘Town’ is said quite loosely. There are just over 150 full-time residents, all over the age of sixty, save for Hunk, who runs the fueling station and mechanic shop-slash-bakery. He’s a man of many talents. 

 

Keith doesn’t count the residents of the Westmoor in the same bracket as the residents of the Town. There has always been a very clear divide in his mind, the people of Westmoor and the people of Town. He knows everybody in town by name, and he knows where they all live and what their childhood dog’s favorite flavour of icecream was, but they’re still  _ acquaintances.  _

 

Meaning, they know nothing of him. 

 

And he likes it that way. He plans to keep it that way. They know his name and they know he’s quiet and that he works for Kolivan, but they don’t know what he would do if faced with a difficult situation. 

 

Tell him that there’s a train track with a fork in it, and no way to stop the train, with one person tied to the track on one fork, and five people tied onto the track on the other fork, and the town residents have no idea how Keith will reply, even though he knows exactly how each of _them_ would reply. 

 

The answer is simple, though, he thinks. It would all depend on who was tied to which track. 

 

The harley hums under him, and he urges it forwards, wind whipping across his face. Trees stretch up to the sky on one side, and endless yellow fields reach as far as the eye can see on his other side. 

 

He arrives in town all too quickly. He guides the harley down faded brick roads, eyes skimming past the deserted strip mall. The last store there - a small, cramped hobby shop - had closed down a year ago. 

 

He makes his way to Hunk’s shop, a proud little place with a cheery yellow sign out front reading, “Westmoor Baked Goods!” in smaller, barely-readable letters underneath that, it says. “Feuling and mechanic station around back.” 

 

Keith parks the harley in front of the peeling white picket fence, and hooked his helmet onto one of the handlebars. 

 

The street is quiet, almost  _ too  _ still, reminding Keith of an eerie calm before a deadly storm. He runs a hand through his hair as he walks up to the shop’s door, wiping non-existent mud off of his boots on the welcome mat. The bell jingles as he pushes the door open, and he’s immediately hit with the smell of freshly baked bread. 

 

“Keith! Buddy, how’s it going?” Hunk’s smile is brighter than the fucking sun, in Keith’s opinion. 

 

He grins back easily, “Still alive and kicking.” He says, the standard reply. 

 

“Good to hear. Coffee?” Hunk offers, already putting on a fresh pot of dark roast. 

 

“Of course. What type of bread d’you got?” Keith leans his forearms on the counter. 

 

“Multigrain just came out of the oven, and there’s still some rye and white from yesterday.” Hunk turns around, grabbing something off of a plate. “Raspberry cinnamon buns.” He hands half of one to Keith, “please be my taste tester.” 

 

Things are always easy with Hunk. He doesn’t ask for anything that Keith doesn’t want to offer, and he never fails to have some sort of treat put aside for Keith. He has his order memorized perfectly, and the bright lighting, colourful walls and quiet chillstep R&B music bring Keith a very specific sense of peace and belonging. 

 

“Fuck, Hunk. This is amazing.” Keith says, trying in vain to stop crumbs from dribbling out of his mouth. Silently, with a knowing smile, Hunk hands Keith a napkin. 

 

“Is it really? Rolo said that his mom used to make them so I figured I’d better sort something out for him. It’s his birthday.”

 

“They’re orgasmic.” Keith sighs.

 

Hunk laughs, wrapping one up in paper and putting it at the bottom of a brown bag. “It’s on the house since I like your compliments.”

 

“You’re a goddamn life saver.” Keith leans back up against the counter, “When are you coming by the hotel next? Pidge is going stir-crazy without another smart person to talk to.” 

 

“Don’t sell yourself short, you’re plenty smart.” 

 

Keith rolls his eyes, “I mean  _ actually  _ smart. Not just street smart.”

 

“Tomorrow night.” Hunk says, “may as well indulge Pidge.” 

 

“There’s new goats, too.” Keith says, flashing a smile, “a set of twins, I think.” 

 

Hunk’s eyes light up, “are they Matilda’s?” 

 

“Nah, the one I saw looked like a goddamn carbon copy of Green.” 

 

“Aww…” Hunk pulls out a cutting board and serrated knife. “They have names yet?” 

 

“Not that I know of. You know how Pidge is, though. They’ll be a few years old by the time Pidge decided on the right name.” Keith chuckles. 

 

Hunk grabs the loaf of bread and starts slicing it evenly, “I’ll think of a few to run past her. Hey - um… how’s Lance doing?” 

 

Keith hears the hesitation in his voice. Hunk’s eyes stay fixated on the loaf of bread, like it’s the most exciting thing in the world. 

 

“He’s… good.” Keith finally settles on. “I think the whole  _ end of the world  _ thing has gotten to him a bit.” Keith fiddles with his fingers. Then, because he and Hunk are pretty close, all things considered, he says, “...you miss him much?” 

 

Hunk’s breath hitches in his throat. Seven months ago, he and Lance had called off their engagement. It’s not much of a sore subject nowadays, but it’s evident that it still affects both parties greatly. 

 

“That’s an understatement.” Hunk mutters, his voice sounding so wrecked that Keith wishes he hadn’t said anything. 

 

“He’ll be around tomorrow night when you come over, anyway.” Keith says, trying to craft his voice into something gentle. 

 

“Yeah, I figured. Has Kolivan offered him a full time job yet?” 

 

“Not officially.” Keith says, “but he lives at the hotel and does as much as me and Pidge, so.” 

 

“I’m glad.” Hunk wraps the sliced bread in plastic wrap, setting two slices aside. “Ham and cheese?” 

 

“Yes please.” Keith shifts his weight onto his right leg. “How’re you holding up, living alone?” 

 

“Pretty good.” Hunk says, assembling Keith’s sandwich with practiced ease. “I’m getting used to it. Or - I should be getting used to it. It’s been seven months, for god’s sake.” 

 

“It takes time.” Keith says sympathetically, “But it’ll be alright.” He leans across the counter to pat Hunk’s shoulder. 

 

Hunk gives Keith a rueful smile, and wraps up the sandwich in a sheet of checkered paper. He folds down the top of the bag, and hands it off to Keith. 

 

“Thanks.” Keith says, “you make the best food in the country, you know.” 

 

Hunk’s smile has a hint more of happiness embedded into it this time, “only for you.” 

 

“Put it on my tab,” Keith says, throwing a wink over his shoulder. 

 

“See you soon!” Hunk calls after him. 

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

Kolivan has given him the day off, which isn’t a rare occurrence, but Keith does his best to savour it all the same. It’s nice to escape sometimes. He heads for the abandoned farmland after collecting his lunch from Hunk. 

 

Or -  _ mostly  _ abandoned farmland. Lotor still lives out there. He’s let the majority of his land go to waste, grass brittle and dry, barns sagging in decay and fences broken to bits. But he’s kept one pasture well maintained, where he keeps a handful of horses. 

 

It’s a little bit out of the way, about a half hour drive off of the main highway, down a winding dusty road to Lotor’s house. He turns down the road, kicking up copious amount of dust behind him. He turns off the road when he nears the horse’s pasture, and parks it close to the fence. 

 

The buckskin gelding is his favorite horse. His name is Misha, and standing at just under eighteen hands high, he’s the tallest thoroughbred of the bunch. Horse racing hasn’t been a prominent sport for almost six hundred years now, but Misha was said to come from a long line of champions, tracing all the way back to a gigantic chestnut called Secretariat. 

 

Misha canters slowly up to the fence now, tail raised high and streaming behind him in the wind. 

 

“Hey buddy.” Keith says, reaching a hand through the fence to pat the horse affectionately. “How’re you doing today?” 

 

Misha shorts in lieu of a reply, and Keith laughs softly. “I’m glad you’re feeling good. One day I’ll remember to bring treats for you, okay? You’re a good boy, Mishka.” He used to be completely indifferent towards most animals, but ever since he moved out to such a remote part of the country he learned just how much the people of both Westmoor town and Westmoor hotel relied on animals to provide them with necessities that would otherwise be incredibly expensive, and has become increasingly respectful towards said animals. Eventually the respect he felt morphed into something closer to affection and  _ love.  _

 

Almost everybody has either hens or ducks for eggs, or cows for milk. The herd of sheep owned by Rolo and Nyma produce a massive amount of wool each year, that they trade throughout the town in order to get their hands on other products. Pidge has her goats that she milks, and there’s a group of old ladies that take a portion of the milk to make soap, which then gets distributed throughout the town. It’s all quite efficient, everybody pitches in and everybody shares. 

 

That’s the good part of living near a small town. The sense of community is strong.

 

He says goodbye to Misha after a few minutes, and heads off towards his favorite picnic spot. 

 

It’s nearly noon by the time he hikes up to the top of the hill, and he shrugs off his leather jacket, allowing it to fall in a heap on the straw-like grass. He sits down cross legged, leaning back on his hands and staring towards the horizon. 

 

The sky is a clear, pale blue, void of any clouds. The sun is a bright orange, and Keith averts his eyes away from it. He pulls Hunk’s sandwich from the bag, and carefully unwraps the paper. He takes a bite before setting it down on top of his discarded jacket, and fishing his phone out of his pocket. 

 

He props his phone up against a rock, and starts up Pidge’s hologram keyboard. 

 

His fingers hesitate over the keys for a moment, whilst his mind desperately searches for words. He’s never considered himself a  _ writer,  _ even counting in his brief stint at university where he enrolled for half a dozen courses all following some sort of english language or creative writing plan. 

 

After all, it’s hard to keep up your grades at school if you’re considered a criminal. 

 

It’s hard to keep up your grades if you’re on the run from the law. Or, to be more accurate -  _ hiding  _ from the law. 

 

But he still loves writing, and he tries to squeeze it into his day as much as he possibly can. He has quite the collection of half-finished stories and outlines. Starting them is one thing, actually finishing them is a completely different matter. 

 

He writes until the sun starts the last legs of it’s decent below the horizon, and then he puts away his phone in favour of watching bright colours streak across the sky in a silent symphony. 

 

He’s learned to love the world around him. He’s learned to love writing and sunsets and stars. He’s glad he’s come so far - the anger that used to live in his chest has ebbed, thankfully. 

 

His phone rings suddenly, and Keith startles, his mind snapping back to reality, having been lost in the colours of the sky. 

 

“Hello?” He holds the phone up to his ear. 

 

“Where are you?” Kolivan’s voice snaps, a little unnecessarily harsh, in Keith’s opinion. 

 

“Out.” Keith says, suppressing a sigh, “the power out again or something? You gave me the day off.” 

 

“ _ No,  _ the power’s not out. But I need you back here, if you’re sober.” 

 

Keith rolls his eyes. “Why?” 

 

“There’s a group here for a star tour, I need you here  _ now. _ ” 

 

“Can’t you get Lance to do it? He knows enough about constellations to give a half assed tour, I’m sure.” 

 

_ “Keith.”  _ Keith can practically hear Kolivan’s eye roll, “Just listen to me for  _ once.  _ Lance is… unfit for the public, currently.” A heavy sigh comes through the line. 

 

“Is he high again?” The sun has filling sunken below the horizon now. Keith’s eyes flick up towards the sky, searching for the first hint of stars. When Kolivan doesn’t reply, Keith keeps going, “I swear to god, I’m going to find whoever deals him that shitty weed and-” 

 

“Keith.” Kolivan sounds tired. That man works too damn hard. “Just… come back?” 

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Keith pushes himself to his feet, tugging on his jacket. “I’ll be back soon.” 

 

Star tours are part of the reason that the Westmoor hotel is still operational. There’s not many places left in the world that are isolated and dark enough to really, truly see the stars. Business has died down though, because the general population of the world has sunk into fear. 

 

Nobody is keen to leave their homes. Nobody really wants to go on a vacation to the middle of nowhere, even with the promise of beautiful sights. Keith, for one, thinks it should be the opposite. If the world really is to end, why wouldn’t everybody be scrambling to see as much of the beauty of the galaxy as they possibly could before it’s too late?

 

He speeds through the countryside in the dying light, stars coming to life above him. 

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

Keith slaps on a fake smile and hands out stargazing pamphlets to the group of middle-aged, post-midlife crisis businessmen, who all seem baffled that they’ll actually be able to  _ see  _ stars. 

 

To most people in this broken and battered world, stars are a thing from fairytales. You can’t catch even the faintest glimpse of them in the city. The smog eats up at the sky where stars used to hang. Even if the smog wasn’t bad; a strict curfew made it impossible to explore any sort of stargazing. 

 

He does the tour on autopilot, and before he knows it, the two hours is up and they walk back to the hotel from the stargazing field. He bids them all goodnight and then heads towards the barn. It isn’t too late just yet - Pidge might still be there. 

 

The barn is newer than the hotel itself, but it could still stand to have a few repairs done. It’s built off the side of the hotel, and back during the hotel’s peak, horses were kept in the roomy stalls. Now, it’s home to Pidge’s goats and Kolivan’s chickens. 

 

Pidge has at least half a dozen goats, and Kolivan keeps twice as many chickens.

 

“Pidge?” He pulls the door closed behind him, eyes scanning the aisle. 

 

“In the loft,” comes her faint reply. 

 

When Keith climbs up the ladder, he finds Pidge sitting on a bale of hay, the two new baby goats fast asleep on her lap. 

 

“That’s pretty fucking cute.” He comments, plopping himself down in front of her on the hay-strewn ground.

 

“They’re Green’s babies. Want one?” 

 

“I am not responsible enough to own an animal.” Keith says, but he gently scoops one off of Pidge’s lap anyway. “They’re pretty neat though.” 

 

“Hell yeah they are.” Pidge catches her bottom lip between her teeth. “Hey Keith…” 

 

“Yeah?” He studies her face, taking in her small, worried frown. A serious tone washes over them, and he pets the sleeping goat in his lap. When Pidge doesn’t say anything else, Keith prompts her, “well. Spit it out then.” 

 

“Do you- d’you know a tall guy, at least six foot two? Weird lock of white hair, scar across his nose. Missing an arm.”

 

Keith despises the way that his blood runs cold at the description. “Why?” He snaps. 

 

“Some guy checked in earlier. Asked about you.”

 

Keith mulls over this. He’s supposed to be invisible; absolutely and completely free from his past. He feels a spark of anger in his chest - the type that threatens to burst into a flame unless he does not carefully address it and move on from it. He’s gotten infinitely better at that, it only took years of practice. He takes in the facts that Pidge lays over him. He knows who it is. 

 

What he doesn’t know is  _ why  _ or  _ how.  _

 

“Know him? If it’s some creep, I can totally get Kolivan to kick him out.” 

 

There’s a long pause. Straw rustles as something small moves through it. Chickens cluck sleepily. In the distance, an owl hoots. Pidge’s breathing is slow; steady, waiting. 

 

Does Keith know him? He knows his name. His heart clenches. He  _ knows.  _ It’s doing something weird to his chest, constricting his breaths.  _ Control yourself.  _

 

Fear. That’s what this is, he realises dimly. But fear of  _ what,  _ he has no clue.

 

“Keith?”

 

“No.” Keith takes a deep breath, forcing himself to meet Pidge’s eyes. He lies as easily as he ever say, with the grace and ease of someone who’s spent their entire life  _ running  _ and  _ lying  _ through their fucking teeth. “I have no idea who you’re talking about. Must be some stoned weirdo.” 

 

Pidge shrugs, picking up little bits of straw and laying them on her goat’s sleeping form. “Maybe.” 

 

He chooses to ignore the doubt in her voice because it’s the easiest thing to do. “Hunk’s coming over tomorrow.” 

 

“Finally.” Pidge seems relieved at the change of subject. The atmosphere around them shifts into something much more comfortable. “It’s been weeks.” 

 

“If you actually bothered to leave this place you could, I don’t know,  _ go see him. _ ” 

 

“Yeah, well.” Pidge grins at him with all of her teeth, “then he’d think I really care.” 

 

“Yeah. That’s kinda the point of  _ friendship.”  _ Keith snorts, “to  _ care  _ about things other than yourself.” 

 

“Not fair. I care about my goats. Besides, you’re the narcissist here.” 

 

Where hunk is soft and kind, Pidge is sharp and has a mean streak that balances on the very thin line between  _ friendly banter  _ and  _ actual bullying.  _

 

He lets silence wash over them because he doesn’t want to fight right now. 

 

His mind is still spinning.  _ Some guy checked in earlier. Asked about you. A tall guy, at least six foot two? Weird lock of white hair, scar across his nose. Missing an arm.  _ He knows that description. He knows who that is. God, he knows that body more than he knows his own. How many times, he thinks, has he pressed the pads of his thumbs along the scar that stretches across his nose? 

 

Nobody else could fit that description. There’s only  _ one  _ person and yet there’s no answer as to  _ why  _ or  _ how.  _

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

_ “Look for me in the stars one day, baby. Stare up at those fucking sky diamonds and think of me when I’m gone. Think of how goddamn happy we were. Think of how many fucking memories we’ve made. Think of all of the good things.  _

 

_ Think I how I love you. Think of my smile. Think of the way that you make me laugh through all the fuckign tears. Think of -  _

 

_ Fuck. Shi - think of our love, for it was made for the fucking movies. Don’t think of the shitty parts of it. Don’t remember the shitty parts. Just remember you and me and a million promises that we knew we couldn’t keep. Just remember us and the stars.  _

 

_ Remember the love. And don’t you dare stop looking for me within the stars. I’ll be up there.” _

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

Shiro says, “ _ Keith, _ ” like it means something, and Keith swears on every single God that he tries to stop himself from decking Shiro. 

 

But as Keith’s fist meets the side of Shiro’s face, he’s not thinking of any of those Gods. All he’s thinking about is how  _ fucking  _ angry he is. He had hoped that Pidge had been wrong - he had hoped that there wasn’t some tall, broad-shouldered, scarred man at the front desk asking about him earlier in the day. 

 

He had hoped  _ so hard  _ that it wasn’t  _ him.  _

 

That it wasn’t  _ Shiro.  _

 

Shiro grabs the loose fabric of Keith’s T-shirt just above his heart, pinching keith’s skin. He yanks Keith to the side, throwing him away like  _ trash.  _ And then spits out blood. 

 

“What the fuck.” Keith’s heart beats so hard against his ribs that he wouldn’t be surprised if Shiro could  _ hear  _ it. “Are you doing here.” 

 

The grass is long, soaking through the cuffs of Keith’s jeans. The moon is bright, sending long shadows streaming across the lawn. Pidge has long since gone to bed. 

 

All that exists, in this moment, is Keith and a man with a full moon behind him, acting as a halo. 

 

Shiro’s lips are red, tinged with blood. Keith hates that his eyes go to Shiro’s lips first. He hates that it’s his eyes that he noticed second. 

 

Keith turns away, rubbing at his knuckles. “How did you find me?” His voice tilts up at the end. It doesn’t shake, but it’s close. He clenches his hands into fists, stalking a few yards away to sit down on one of the few benches that are scattered throughout the front lawn. His knees feel a bit too weak to stand. It’s too late, he’s running on too little sleep. It has nothing to do with Shiro. 

 

“You weren’t supposed to find me.” Keith says. His voice is angry. At himself or at Shiro, he doesn’t know. Shiro sits down on the opposite end of the bench from Keith. 

 

“ _ You weren’t supposed to find me. _ ” Keith repeats, and he runs a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead. Then, “Why.” Because  _ why  _ is more important than  _ how  _ right now. “Why did you look for me. I told you-”

 

“You didn’t tell me anything.” Shiro snaps, and Keith falls silent instantly. “You didn’t tell  _ us  _ anything. You just left.” 

 

“I don’t want to fight with you.” Keith says, because it’s true. He's so tired of fighting. But it's like a magnet - he keeps gravitating back to it.

 

“Well fuck, Cherry Bomb. Guess that makes everything A-Okay now, doesn’t it?” The sarcasm is thick, and Keith’s heart stutters. 

 

Shiro’s voice is deep and rough from one too many cigarettes. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, ever since the very beginning. It’s what made it easy for people to take advantage of him. It’s what made Keith, a stupid  _ kid,  _ want to protect him. He’s never tried to hid the emotion in his voice. He’s always allowed it to well up, seeping into each and every word that he speaks. 

 

Keith can hear the hurt. 

 

“Why.” He tries to craft his voice into something professional. He’s always tried to hide the heart on his sleeve. His heart has always been too big to hide away completely. “Why are you here?” 

 

“I’m just…” There’s pain there. Regret, too. It’s not softly spoken. It’s the words of someone trying oh so desperately to keep it all together when their world is crumbling down around them. Keith waits for Shiro to continue. He scratched his nails across his forearms and tilts his head towards the stars. 

 

“Seeking a friend for the end of the world, I guess.”

 

 


	3. Give me the Freedom to Enjoy This Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hi, Keith.” Shiro’s eyes are warm.
> 
> Lance says, “Oh. You’re that guy.” Then he turns to Keith, “I can - beat him up? Or- or we can leave if-”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school is back in full swing, and thanks to my fuckin' superb planning skills, i've signed up for a class at 7:30am as well as throwing myself fully into everything academic and science-based. So basically, what I'm getting at is that I'm gonna be extremely busy, so chapters are now going to come out bi-weekly instead of weekly so that I can, y'know, actually get good grades. 
> 
> That being said, please enjoy this chapter!

 

 

“Bullshit,” Keith says. “The world isn’t ending.”

 

He knows that Shiro is giving him a curious, assessing look. He can feel it burning into the side of his face, but he doesn’t give Shiro any satisfaction. He doesn’t look at him. Instead, his head is tilted towards the sky and he’s listing off names of stars in his head.

 

Merak, Dubhe, Megrez. He counts his way through the big dipper and then traces his eyes up from Dubhe all the way to Polaris, connecting it to Draco.

 

The silence that they fall into when Keith watches the stars and Shiro studies Keith’s face is tense. It’s a very far cry from the easy comfort that they used to be able to enjoy around each other. Time changes people, after all.

 

Frogs croak loudly. Crickets chirp. Somewhere in the woods, an owl hoots.

 

The world is dark. The moon, hung high up in the navy sky, casts dim shadows across the lawn, catching on each blade of grass.

 

“Keith.” The way he says it, caught on the exhale, full of too much _meaning_ is really what sets Keith’s heart on edge. It makes him so _angry._ He rubs at his knuckles.

 

Keith says, “Shiro,” and he hates how desperate it sounds, the second syllable catching in his throat. He shakes his head, ducking down and fiddling with his hands. “How did you find me?”

 

“You say that like you’ve been purposefully hiding,” Shiro says, a dull tinge to his voice, not surprised in the slightest.

 

Keith gestures vaguely to their surroundings. “Does this look like the type of place people come to if they’re not running away from something?”

“You were always running,” Shiro says, “but you never used to be running _away._ ”

 

Keith says, “Well. Shit happens.”

 

And Shiro plunges forward, like he’s terrified of any sort of silence that may end up stretching between them. “You’re a hard man to find, let me tell you that much.” He sighs heavily, “You always stayed one step ahead of me. I thought I caught up to you a bunch of times and then it turned out I’d been wrong and you had kept going and I just-”

 

Keith’s mouth feels dry. Shiro had _followed_ him.

 

“- _God,_ Keith. I told myself that if you weren’t _here,_ then I would just give up. Go back North and head to the West Coast.”

 

Shiro takes a deep breath before he keeps going, “I don’t know what to say to you. It’s been so long and I always thought I’d know what to say once I _found_ you but now I’m here and just fucking - rambling. I had so much to say and now all that seems trivial.”

 

“What were you gonna say?” Keith wonders outloud.

 

“It doesn’t matter now.”

 

“Okay.” Keith runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. I don’t know what to say either I’m so-” He stops himself before he has the chance to pour out his heart. “Why did you keep looking for me? I thought I made it clear enough that I...”

 

“That you didn’t want to be followed? That you didn’t want people to actually _care_ about you?” Shiro barks out a short, angry laugh. “All you did was leave, Keith. A lot of shit happened and you ran away from it. You just left us all there to deal with it when it was your mess to clean up.”

 

Keith digs around in his pocket for a cigarette. He lights it quickly and takes a quick drag, puffing smoke out into the air.

 

“It’s too late for this conversation,” Keith says finally, void of all feeling.

 

“Then we’ll talk later,” Shiro says. “Stop _running,_ for once in your life.”

 

Keith stands, arching his back and listening to his joints cracking. He still can’t bring himself to look at Shiro. “I never ran away from you,” He says after a moment. “I know I hurt you. And - I’m sorry about that, I am. But everything that I did… I didn’t do it because of you, okay?”

 

“This isn't a goodbye,” Shiro says, not getting up. “We’re going to talk later.”

 

Keith closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, just to clear his mind. He glances back up to the stars before turning around and heading in the direction of the hotel.

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

It’s cold. Mechanically, Keith pulls his window closed and sits cross-legged on the strip of carpeted floor between the foot of his bed and the short wardrobe that the T.V sits on top of.

 

He cradles his head in his hands. He clenches his teeth so hard that a sharp pain runs through his jaw. _Regret and longing,_ he thinks, _are the worst fucking emotions._

 

Shiro’s changed. Not a lot, granted, but the differences are still there. His voice has more rasp in it, and he’s put on some more muscle. The pain that Keith could hear in his voice was too evident. Shiro wasn’t supposed to be able to hurt like that. His hair, too, is longer, and his eyes darker.

 

Keith wonders if he had retained his mind. He wonders if the world had sucked all of Shiro’s dreams away from him. He wonders if Shiro’s running from something, or if he’s chasing something.

 

Numbly, Keith reaches under his bed, grasping at the fading shoebox that he’d tucked away under there when he first arrived at the hotel. He hadn’t opened it in so long. He knows he shouldn’t. He _knows_ that he’s only getting the urges to do so now because his emotions are heightened but _fuck,_ temptations are a bitch to try to resist.

 

The box is filled with memories. From his old and broken zune, to his favorite pokemon card to the last page of _The Great Gatsby_ (which he had torn out of a library book in a town he never went back to.) He flips the box upside-down, watching as his _life_ spills out onto a dirty, beer-stained carpet.

 

His hands tremble. As much as he clenches his fists, he cannot still them. He digs through the pile, trying to stop his _stupid_ heart from stuttering in his chest when-

 

-There. Shiro. The picture is old and ripping around the edges. Keith can remember the day that this picture was taken, he can remember how happy he felt and how _free_ he was.

 

It was early summer, spring having barely ended, really. He had known Shiro for a while by then, but they’d never had the chance to be around each other one-on-one. They had gone to a lake with some friends, a few hours out of the city, and had played in the water in the way that Keith had always wished he could when he was a kid. They splashed at each other and dove beneath the still water, blowing bubbles and smiling so hard that their faces hurt.

 

That evening, Shiro had pulled him away. They sat on the dock together, feet dangling down into the darkened water. They’d been pressed together from hip to shoulder, and Keith thought that if he could stay like that for the rest of his life, he could be happy.

 

Shiro had taken a photo of them together after he’d kissed Keith.

 

Keith had a dumbstruck smile on his face, and his hair was windswept, hanging around his face.

 

Keith flips the picture around, eyes catching on the slanted words scrawled across the back.

 

_‘For Keith. Hope we can make even more memories together. Yours always, Shi.’_

 

And Keith doesn’t cry. He _doesn’t,_ because he’s not allowing himself to sink that low. He will never sink that low. But he does have to rub at his eyes to find relief in the sting that sinks in. He does have to press one hand on top of his heart and let the picture flutter to the floor, pressing his other hand into his stomach because it _hurts._

 

But he doesn’t cry.

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

When he wakes up the next morning, sunlight is already streaming through his curtains and whoever is staying in the room above his is stomping up a storm. He shoves everything back into the shoebox and throws it under his bed, angry that he’d brought it out in the first place.

 

He gets changed out of the clothes that he had been wearing yesterday, and heads off to the kitchen, desperately in need of coffee.

 

The kitchen is empty.

 

“Fuck, Kolivan,” Keith says to empty air. “You really need to stop hiring shitheads who never fucking show up.”

 

“Damn, Keith. Kiss your mother with that mouth?”

 

Keith spins around. Lance is sitting on the counter, beside the coffee pot.

 

“My mother’s dead.” Keith says, “Never did get to kiss her.”

 

“Stop being so morbid.” Lance says, “There’s coffee here.”

 

Keith grabs the biggest mug he can find and fills it to the brim. For a second, he considers leaving. He could go back to his room and wallow in self-pity. Maybe he could convince Kolivan to lend him _Kill Bill,_ and he could make a day out of watching Uma Thurman murdering some assholes.

 

He doesn't leave though. Maybe it has something to do with the dejected, almost _sad_ look painted across Lance’s face. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to have to walk all the way back to his room.

 

“What’s up?” He says, hopping up onto the counter beside Lance, the coffee pot sitting between them.

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Lance snaps.

 

Keith raises his eyebrows, averting his gaze and taking a sip of coffee. “What’s the attitude for.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, and he leaves the hard edge to it. When it comes to dealing with Lance’s mood swings, Keith has a difficult time with finding patience.

 

“Pidge said Hunk was coming over today.”

 

“Yeah. Thought you’d be happy about that.”

 

“I should be.” Lance takes a gulp of his coffee before continuing, “I just don’t want to see him today.”

 

“Nobody said that you have to see him. You can just hang out somewhere else.”

 

“Yeah but it’s - it’s _Hunk._ I know that you don’t have experience with seeing your ex but man, it sucks. Like, it doesn’t usually suck. Usually we have fun, right? But fuck. Today is just a really bad day. I woke up and was like, wow, today’s gonna be so shitty.”

 

“Just drink your coffee,” Keith says. “You don’t know how the day is gonna go until you drink your goddamn coffee.”

 

“Okay,” Lance says. And then, when Keith raises an eyebrow at him, “ _Okay,_ I won’t judge the day before coffee. But if I- okay. _Okay._ I know but tonight if I still feel like horse shit will you please,” Lance throws his hands up in the air. Keith grabs the mug full of hot coffee out of his hands so that it doesn’t splash everywhere. “Like, distract me, or something? We could take your god-forsaken bike somewhere that’s not here.”

 

“Fine,” Keith says, because arguing with Lance is impossible; the guy’s a goddamn mule when it comes to making up his mind. He doesn’t budge.

 

“Thanks,” Lance says, grabbing his coffee.

 

“And for the record,” Keith says, after Lance has taken a few big gulps of coffee, “my ex showed up here last night. So you’re wrong about the whole _no experience with dealing with exes_ thing.”

 

“Fuck.” Lance says, swiveling around so that he’s fully facing Keith, “Wait, really? You’re not shitting me?”

 

Keith shrugs. “Yeah. It was a shock for me too.”

 

Of all people, he didn’t think that he’d be telling Lance first. In fact, he wasn’t planning on telling _anybody_ about Shiro. But if he had to, he thought that he’d be telling Hunk, or maybe Pidge. Hunk would be kind and supportive. He would give Keith a hug if Keith needed it and he would provide both a shoulder to cry on and snacks to eat. He wouldn’t press for more than Keith was willing to offer, and he’d give him little tidbits of advice when it was appropriate.

 

Pidge would be supportive in her own way. Once upon a time, Keith knew that she was just as soft and kind as Hunk is. But life has a way of tearing people down and building them up into something hard and tough. He knows that she’s been through a lot, and that she’d come out a different person for it. When looking for comfort or someone to vent to though, she’s less than ideal.

 

But in the event that he would telling anybody about Shiro, he would have picked Pidge over Lance, because Lance is rash and loud and doesn’t know when it’s his turn to talk versus his turn to listen. His advice is largely unhelpful, and though his heart is in the right place, he can often times come off arrogant and unintelligent, which is why Keith surprises himself when he actually opens up to him.

 

“I haven’t seen him in… years. Ever since I left, y’know? And then he shows up here and doesn’t even tell me _why_ or _how._ ”

 

“He must’ve come here for a reason though, right?” Lance says.

 

“You’d think so.” Keith takes a sip of his coffee. “I wish I knew why.”

 

“Does it make you miss him?” Lance asks. “Like, when I see Hunk sometimes it’s fine and other times all I can think about is how much I miss what we used to have.”

 

“I don’t know.” Keith says honestly, “I didn’t see him for very long. I was mostly just angry that he’d been able to find me. I thought I was completely off the grid.”

 

“What happened? Like, did he just come up to you and say like ‘Keith, my man, long time no see, wanna grab a cuppa and stare into each other's eyes?’”

 

“He said my name and then I punched him.”

 

“That’s not how you’re supposed to greet your long lost lover.”

 

“He’s not my long lost lover. He’s just some guy.”

 

“Yeah, some guy that obviously meant a lot to you. You don’t go around juts punching anybody. You’re very selective with your punching. Did you, though?”

 

“Did I what?”

 

“Love him.”

 

And more than anything, he wants to say no. He wants to tell Lance that Shiro was just _some guy_ that hadn’t really meant anything. Because telling Lance will solidify the past. Telling Lance will mean that somebody else _knows._

 

“I…” Keith takes a deep breath. He swirls around his coffee and then knocks the whole mug back, chugging it all down like it will give him courage. He fiddles with his fingers, cracking each of his knuckles individually. Finally, he says, all in one breath, “I was so fucking in love with him, you have no idea.”

 

“Wow. Okay.” Lance grabs the whole goddamn coffee pot. “Same goes for you then. If he’s hanging around and you need an out… I gotchu, buddy.” He claps Keith on the shoulder. “Really.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

And it’s nice - the way that Keith can trust the people around him. It’s comforting to know that there’s always someone around who will have his back even during the shittiest, most fucked-up situations.

 

He used to have this sort of trust with a different group of friends.

 

Too bad he fucked that one up, then.

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

_“Till I breathe my last breath, Red, I’ll be by your side. You know - whatever you need, whenever you need it. You know you can count on me.”_

 

_“Till you leave.” The words are slurred, his gaze unfocused. “You’ll leave and then you won’t but until then you’ll be here. I know that I think.”_

 

_“You’re not making any sense.”_

 

_“No no no- fuck.” He sits up abruptly, blanket pooling around his waist. “God, what drugs did they give me I’m so out of it. Shi. Shi, did they drug me? Where the fuck are we?”_

 

_“You’re a little messed up right now, buddy. But it’s okay. We’re at a hospital. They’ll get you all fixed up.”_

 

_“But it doesn’t hurt. I swear I’m fine - we need to leave I promised Allura that I’d take her out to the club that she likes, y’know the one with the - the glitter? It’s her. Birthday.”_

 

_“Keith, baby. You have to listen to me. You cannot leave. If you leave now you’ll die. I cannot unhook you from these machines and even if I could I wouldn’t because I’d rather you be alive and mad at me then dead.”_

 

_“You’re not making any sense,” he parrots the words back._

 

_“It will make sense. One day. But I need - I need you to promise me one thing.”_

 

_“Depends what it is.”_

 

_There’s a deep breath, echoing through the dimly-lit room. Then, “After this is all over. After you get out of here and after - after all of this stupid shit. After we get back on track, don’t run. I’ll support whatever decisions you make, you know I will. But whatever happens, we gotta do it together, alright?”_

 

_“Where’s Allura? Ulaz? Axca? Shi, where is everyone?”_

 

_When Shiro doesn’t respond, he says, “You’re scaring me.”_

 

_“Just promise you won’t leave.”_

 

_“Shiro… what did you do?”_

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

Lance, as it turns out, doesn’t need Keith as a distraction from Hunk.

 

By the time that Keith catches up with his friends after the day’s work is done, they’ve already drank their way through half the cheap booze that they’d pooled together, and are stretched out across hay bales in the loft. The two newborn goats are hopping around, happy as can be, and their mother - Green, as Pidge has affectionately dubbed her - is asleep by Hunk’s feet.

 

“Ay, look who finally decided to show up!” Lance throws a beer at Keith. “Join us, Gandalf.”

 

Keith grabs at his hat, pulling it off of his head and throwing it at Lance. “Stop calling me that every time I wear a hat.”

 

“A _cowboy_ hat, Keith.” Pidge smirks. “You look like a really badly dressed hillbilly.”

 

“Bold of you to assume that there are well-dressed hillbillies. And I still don’t understand what Gandalf and cowboy hats have in common.” Keith laughs, settling down in the straw near Hunk, who’s quiet and won’t make too much fun of him.

 

“Stars are almost out,” Pidge comments after a moment, a hint of honest to god sincerity in her voice. “We could go be pretentious bastards.”

 

“Who are we kidding?” Lance laughs. “We’re always fuckin’ pretentious. I mean just look at Keith here - his favorite book is _The Great Gatsby._ ”

 

“Is it really?” Hunk asks curiously.

 

“Yeah.” Keith rolls his eyes at Lance. “I didn’t _love_ it when I was reading it but goddamn the last part of it is gold.”

 

“I’ve never read it.” Hunk says, “Maybe I should.”

 

Pidge says, “The only reason Keith actually likes it is because of the last couple sentences. _‘Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch our arms farther… And one fine morning - So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’’_ ”

 

“And yet you’re the one who knows it word for word,” Keith teases.

 

“Y’know, that is kind of beautiful,” Lance says thoughtfully, “in a strange way. Like I don’t understand it at all but all those words strung together like they are makes it sound cool.”

 

“Yeah.” Hunk nods. “It reminds me of poetry.”

 

“It’s about… like, trying to get to the future. But the future just keeps slipping away. So the guy - Nick - he just has to keep going, even though there’s… like, he doesn't have much to live for. But then he met this guy who believed in all these things and had all these fancy ass parties and by the end there some of that had rubbed off on Nick and he actually finds himself… wanting to truly chase the future for once.” Keith coughs awkwardly. “Or, something like that, I guess.”

 

Pidge snorts. “New drinking game: everytime Keith goes on a rambling tangent take a shot.”

 

“God, I do not want to get that drunk tonight.” Hunk laughs.

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

They end up on the front lawn later, when the stars are out and the straw feels too prickly. Climbing down the ladder from the loft is a feat in itself, especially with three goats and two armfuls of bottles.

 

“Hey, Keith.” Pidge is laying on her back, beside where Keith is sittle cross-legged.

 

“Yeah?” He peers at her through the dark. Lance lays on the other side of Pidge, his head pillowed on her stomach. Hunk lies by Keith’s knees, hands behind his head.

 

“Truth or dare?”

 

“Really? What are we, twelve?”

 

“Play the damn game, Keith,” Lance pipes up.

 

“Uhh. Fuck, I don’t know. Dare.”

 

Pidge grins. “Order me a pizza. Extra cheese.”

 

“We don’t live in the city,” Keith deadpans as Lance laughs. “It’s literally impossible to order you pizza.”

 

“Alright. Well, make me a pizza tomorrow then. Or better yet, pay Hunk to make me a pizza tomorrow.”

 

“I’ll make you pizza for free.” Hunk chuckles.

 

“That’s why you’re not a billionaire,” Keith says. “Stop giving away food.”

 

“Y’all are playing this game _wildly_ wrong,” Lance says.

 

“Have much experience playing it then, do you?” Keith takes a sip from his beer bottle.

 

“Yes, actually. Me and my siblings used to play.”

 

“Ah, siblings.” Pidge reaches over and grabs Keith’s bottle. “Fucking siblings.”

 

Keith reaches across her to flick a finger at Lance’s forehead. “Stop making Pidge sad.”

 

“I’m not _sad,_ ” she protests, and then chugs the last of the liquore.

 

“Truth or Dare. Lance,” Hunk says quickly, before Keith can point out that _yes_ Pidge is sad and then go on a long rambling rant about how different people deal with loss and how it’s alright to feel sad sometimes as long as you don’t let it consume your life.

 

“Truth,” Lance says quickly. “I don’t wanna spend tomorrow making anybody pizza.”

 

“Um…” Hunk bites at his bottom lip. “Oh! I know. Did you really like those cookies I gave you last time I came here or were you lying because you wanted to be nice?”

 

“That’s definitely a euphemism for something,” Keith grumbles.

 

“They were actually good,” Lance answers easily. “Pidge. Truth or dare.”

 

“Dare. Do your worst, buddy.”

 

“Kiss Keith.” Lance laughs like a hyena.

 

Pidge wrinkles her nose. “Don’t be nasty.”

 

“I was joking!” Lance shrieks when Keith looms over him. “Joking, I swear! Okay, okay… um… give yourself a stick n’ poke tattoo.”

 

“Weak.” Pidge says, “I would have done that anyway.”

 

“Grab the kit.” Keith nudges her. “Give me one, too.”

 

“I don’t think this is how the game is supposed to work,” Hunk points out.

 

“Fuck it.” Lance says, “Pidge is giving us all tattoos.”

 

“Tattoos are much more fun than this game, anyway,” Pidge says, pushing Lance’s head off of her stomach and standing up. “Gimme five minutes.”

 

“Be safe!” Lance calls after her, breaking off in a laugh when she gives him the finger. “Pass me the wine, will you, Keith?” He says, finally sitting up.

 

“Classy,” Hunk comments, giving Lance a lopsided smile.

 

“Of course.” Lance winks at Hunk, pulling the cork out of the wine with his teeth and spitting it into the grass somewhere. “I’m a classy bitch.”

 

“Nah,” Keith says, “you’re not classy. Just a bitch.”

 

Pidge comes back quickly, wrapping a needle with thread as she sits down in her spot next to Keith. “What do you want?” She asks Keith, stretching out her legs.

 

“Surprise me,” he says, offering her his forearm. “S’long as it’s not porn.”

 

“Trust me, I’m the last person to tattoo porn onto you.”

 

“I saw the last tattoo you gave Lance-”

 

Hunk laughs, the sound filling the night air.

 

“It’s really not funny.” Lance pouts. “That shit has not faded enough.”

 

“I’m giving y’all matching alien ones, then.” Pidge says, effectively cutting off Keith, who’d opened his mouth, about to snap a reply back to Lance.

 

She dips the needle into the ink. “You ready?”

 

“Go for it.”

 

She’s quick and efficient, poking a small alien head into the inner skin on Keith’s arm, by the top of his wrist. Keith is engrossed in the art, one hand curled around the neck of another beer bottle and the other resting across Pidge’s lap, the sting of the needle nothing in comparison to the things that used to scar up his forearms in the past. He’s relaxed, muscles slack, hair falling down around his face, lips quirked up in a small smile, eyes shining.

 

He’s so absorbed with looking at Pidge’s steady, fast hands creating art across his pale skin, that he doesn’t notice when someone walks up to their little group.

 

“Hey,” Lance says. “Who’re you?” His voice is slurred.

 

“My name’s Shiro.”

 

Keith’s eyes jerk up, and he wrenches his arm out of Pidge’s lap, flinching back.

 

“Hi, Keith.” Shiro’s eyes are warm.

 

Lance says, “ _Oh._ You’re _that_ guy.” Then he turns to Keith, “I can - beat him up? Or- or we can leave if-”

 

Hunk grabs the alcohol from Lance’s hands and shushes him. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Hunk, and this is Lance, who really needs to stop drinking so much because he doesn't have a filter at the best of times and really, he’s the lightweight outta the four of us. So you can. Ignore him, really.”

 

“Oh. Okay.” Shiro sticks his hands into his pockets, rocking back awkwardly onto his heels.

 

Keith has half a mind to tell him to fuck way _off._ He’s supposed to be having a good time out with his friends, he really doesn’t need _Shiro_ here. The stupid, reckless, alcohol-enhanced part of his mind says, _but you want Shiro here._ He does his best to ignore that voice. He keeps his mouth shut.

 

“We’ve met.” Pidge says, grabbing at Keith’s hand and tugging him closer, leaning back over his arm. “I’m Pidge. Apparently you already know Keith which is _interesting._ ” She pokes him harder than necessary with the needle.

 

“Nice to meet you guys.”

 

If Keith’s chest didn’t feel so weird he would definitely be laughing at how awkward Shiro sounds.

 

“D’you have anything against getting a tattoo?” Pidge asks, not looking back up at Shiro.

 

“Uh… no? I mean, I’ve got a few already.

 

“Cool.” Pidge says, “Sit down, I’m giving everyone free fucking tattoos.”

 

 


	4. Black Holes and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was scared that you were going to be different,” Shiro says, thoughtfully, the playful tone abandoned. “I spent so long chasing after you and I was terrified that when I finally caught up; you’d be an entirely different person.”
> 
> “Yeah?”

 

 

Shiro’s hands shake. 

 

Keith doesn’t notice it right away. He’s too busy trying to look at anything other than Shiro. His eyes settle on Pidge first, tracing across her soft features, cataloguing the way that her dirty blond hair curls around her ears; the way that her glasses perch on her nose. He watches as she blinks, long lashes brushing against rosy cheeks. He watches her hands, carefully inking his skin. 

 

And when she’s done, he looks at Lance as she pokes the needle into his skin. He watches as Lance fidgets, fingers plucking at the grass, eyes darkening here and there. The ambience that stretches so easily between Pidge and Lance is something to envy - for all the bickering that goes on, they really do bounce off each other’s personalities like a thing of beauty. Of course, whether Lance wants it or not, he will always be closest to Hunk - long-term friendships and relationships are hard to shake, but his friendship with Pidge runs a close second. 

 

When Pidge gets to Hunk, he pulls down the collar of his t-shirt, and she carefully carves the small alien head into the skin just below his collar bone. His t-shirt is an old, faded mustard yellow, with more than one grease stain permanently embedded into it, and he wears the same colour headband to match, keeping the majority of his hair from falling across his warm, caring eyes. Like everybody before him, Hunk does not flinch. Pidge is gentle with what she does, and none of them are new to the whole spontaneous-tattoo event.

 

She turns to Shiro next, a lopsided smile thrown haphazardly across her face. Shiro shuffles closer through the dew-covered grass, ending up cross-legged in front of Pidge, their knees brushing against each other’s. If Keith reached out now - if he moved his hand, if he outstretched his arm, he could so easily touch Shiro. But he doesn’t. Because Shiro is no longer his. 

 

Shiro is wearing a baggy sweater, and Pidge takes one of his arms, flipping his palm to the sky and rolling up the first couple inches of his sleeve. And Keith can’t help it - he looks.

 

Shiro’s hands tremble. One of them is wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle, and the other is in Pidge’s lap. It’s like his muscles are trying to jump out of his skin. The liquid in the bottle sloshes around, and Keith pinpoints the exact moment that Shiro’s expression turns into a grimace. It’s when Pidge tightens her grip, it’s when she tries to keep him still so that she can press the needle into his skin properly. 

 

Frustration writes itself into his body language - etched in the way that his shoulders tighten and his lips twist, his eyebrows furrowing, staring down at his hand. Mindlessly, Keith takes another drink. The alcohol will not suppress the the wash of cold fear that floods through Keith’s blood vessels.  _ Shiro is supposed to be strong. He is supposed to be untouchable .  _

 

“Sorry. Um - maybe. If you could. Do the tattoo somewhere else? It might work better, I’m sorry.” Shiro stumbles over his words, his sentences choppy and spoken quickly. 

 

“Don’t apologize,” Keith says, and his voice is slightly slurred, maybe. 

 

“Sure thing. Strip, pretty boy.” Pidge laughs, poking at Shiro’s sweater. 

 

Shiro snorts, and Keith is satisfied when the tension rolls out of his shoulders. 

 

Lance raises his bottle to the sky when Shiro pulls his sweater and tank top off all in one fluid movement. “Damn.” 

 

Hunk chokes on whatever he’s drinking. “Holy cow. Dude. You could bench press a house.” 

 

Keith has seen Shiro’s body countless times. But Shiro’s body has never looked like this before. So he allows himself, at least for a little while, to look at Shiro’s torso - to take it all in. 

 

The first thing he sees are the muscles. That’s what the others had seen as well. There’s no way that you can miss it, he’s huge and undeniably powerful. Keith traces his eyes from Shiro’s neck, down the curve of his collar bones and over his toned pecs. 

 

“Is that a  _ nipple  _ piercing?” Lance squeaks. “Hunk - dude,  _ look.  _ He’s got a  _ nipple piercing. _ ”

 

“Shut up, Lance,” Keith snaps. “Stop eye-fucking him, you’re so goddamn inconsiderate.” 

 

“Okay, that was uncalled for,” Hunk says quicky, raising an eyebrow at Keith. 

 

“Whatever,” Keith grumbles. “Get the tattoo over with, Pidge.” 

 

“Don’t be an asshole.” Pidge gives Keith a  _ look.  _ “And don’t tell me what to do.”

 

Keith’s eyes flick back to Shiro. He looks to where he knows the tattoo is. Where  _ his  _ and  _ Shiro’s  _ tattoo is. Curved under his left pectoral muscles. Just under his heart. He has a matching one on himself. It was the unfortunate fallout after a drunk night out, living like they would die in the morning. Living like it was their last hour, living like there was  _ nothing  _ except what was happening  _ there  _ and  _ then.  _ Keith doesn’t know where they got the tattoos. He doesn’t really remember the reasoning behind getting them. All he knows is that he wanted to feel like he was Shiro’s. He wanted to feel like Shiro was his. 

 

_ Cepheus.  _ A seven-star constellation in the northern sky,  _ The King.  _ Its stars are stretched out across Shiro’s skin, and there’s a thin, pale scar running all the way through it, slicing it in half. 

 

Keith averts his eyes before anybody can catch him staring. There are other tattoos; there are other landmarks, specked across Shiro’s skin. There are countless memories and countless emotions. There are too many scars. 

 

Keith takes another drink. He kind of feels sick. 

 

“Keith’s  _ always  _ an asshole, Pidge,” Lance is saying. He’s drunk, Keith shouldn’t be angry at him, “Hunk. C’mere buddy. It’s freezing.” 

 

And it’s stupid, the way that people can be so intertwined at yet, during the same moment, be so completely torn apart. 

 

“You’ll always be my best friend,” Lance is saying to Hunk.

 

“Someone get that bottle away from Lance,” Pidge says. “He’s gonna start hitting on people soon if he doesn’t stop drinking.” 

 

“He doesn’t need to be drunk to hit on people,” Hunk says, even as he moves closer to Lance, slinging an arm around his shoulder and pulling him in with such familiar ease. 

 

“He’s gonna start hitting on  _ you, _ ” Pidge corrects herself with a lighthearted eyeroll, “and that would be an awful experience for everybody here.”

 

It’s dark. Maybe that’s what makes the emotions so raw. Pidge presses the needle to a small expanse of clear skin, just under Cephus. Keith feels an ache form in his stremum. 

 

“Everybody just shut up.” Keith is careful to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Just… be quiet.” Oh, that’s worse, the way that his voice fades off into a plea, so open and  _ weak.  _

 

When Shiro’s head snaps in Keith’s direction, Keith bites the inside of his mouth until he tastes the sharp, bitter tang of blood on his tongue. 

 

Keith rubs at his forehead. He takes a deep breath. He lets out a watery laugh. “This is so stupid. What the fuck.” 

 

He waits a moment, and then two. And then his shakes his head and leans back, laying down in the grass, his knees propped up. The stars are pretty; the stars are distracting. 

 

“Melodramatic, much?” Pidge says. 

 

“Fuck off,” Keith mutters. “Pay attention to Lance. He’s the melodramatic one here.” 

 

Shiro has the audacity to laugh. 

 

“So… Shiro.” Idly, Keith listens to Pidge. But he doesn’t take his eyes off the stars. It’s so much easier to be off in space, rather than on earth, where everything is a full of disaster and missed opportunities, riddled with guilt and lies. “You’ve known Keith for a while, then?” 

 

“I guess you could say that.” 

 

“How long?”

 

“Uhh…” There’s hesitation in his voice. Keith closes his eyes. Shiro’s gaze is burning into him, but Keith remains still. “A couple years.” Shiro says it with finality. But Pidge will want a proper answer.

 

“He’s been here for two years. I’m guessing you knew him for longer than that?” she presses. 

 

“Oooh.” Lance giggles. “I bet you knew him when he was a teenager. I think. I dunno how old he is but - was he always this emo? Or was there - fuck, Hunk gimme tha’ bottle back. Fuck’s sake.” 

 

“Sorry,” Hunk is apologizing on Lance’s behalf, “you can ignore Lance.”

 

“Three years?” Pidge says. “Two and a half?” 

 

“No - really, was there a time when he. When he wasn’t sad and  _ emo. _ ” Lance is laughing.

 

“I met him eight years ago. I don’t know what you mean by emo, Lance. He’s always just been Keith to me,” Shiro rushes, as if he just wants everybody to shut up for once.  _ He should try just yelling at them and then laying down and ignoring them, _ Keith thinks. _ It seems to do the trick.  _

 

Eight years. That’s a long time, Keith reflects. The weight of the years seems to be hitting the others as well, as they fall into a strange, heavy silence. 

 

After a couple long seconds pass, Pidge says, “Well, he’s been here for two years. So really you’ve only known him for six years. Give or take some months, of course.” 

 

There’s a smile in Shiro’s voice when he talks. He’s at ease around Pidge, Keith realises suddenly. “I’m not sure that’s how time works, kid.” 

 

“Lots happens when you don’t see someone for a long time,” Pidge says, matter-of-factly. “I’m sure Keith has changed since you’ve last seen him.” 

 

“I’m sure he has,” Shiro says, a warm rumble to his voice. 

 

Keith wonders if that goes both ways. Has Shiro changed in the three years that they’ve been apart? Or is he still just the same old Shiro that he’s always been, with the same tattoos and the same scars and the same baggage that he carries in his mind. 

 

“Someone should poke Keith,” Lance is saying. “No, wait. I wanna do that. We’ll see if he’s really asleep.” 

 

“Touch me and I’ll break every single bone in your hand, Lance,” Keith growls.

 

“See! I solved the mystery. He’s awake.” 

 

“We know, Lance,” Hunk says. “None of us thought he was asleep. I’ve never seen Keith sleep. Has anyone seen him sleep? He could be a vampire.”

 

“Actually, that would explain a lot,” Pidge says thoughtfully. Then, “Hey, Keith. Are you a-”

 

“No.” 

 

“Another mystery solved!” Lance cries out.

 

“So how old is Keith?” Pidge asks Shiro.

 

Secrecy is something that Keith learned. He was taught it, all the way back when he first arrived at the city. He was a kid then, fifteen and fresh out of a toxic foster system, angry and ready to make his mark on the world. 

 

When you’re a kid in the city - the  _ big  _ city, brimming with crime and so corrupt that  _ nobody’s  _ safe, you have to learn how to keep secrets. Lying had become a habit, one that he’d spent a long time trying to break. He keeps facts to himself because anything and everything can be used against a person. Hell, he hadn’t even told Kolivan his  _ name  _ until he’d been living at Westmoor for two months. 

 

“Twenty-four. I think,” Keith says before Shiro can answer. “You know you could just ask me all these invasive questions instead of trying to figure out things about my personal life through somebody you just met.” 

 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Pidge says. 

 

“That makes literally  _ no  _ sense.” Keith rubs a calloused hand over his closed eyes. 

 

“Drink more and it will make sense.” 

 

“That’s peer pressure,” Keith deadpans. 

 

“And you’re a killjoy.” 

 

“I think you mean I actually don’t want to get alcohol poisoning.” 

 

“Each to their own. Hey. We’ve got a new person we should play a game,” Pidge says. “Give us a chance to get to know each other a bit better.”

 

“If you say Truth or Dare again I’m leaving.” 

 

“Two truths and a lie. Or is it Two Lies and a Truth?” 

 

“No, no I think it’s Never Have I Ever,” Lance says, slurred. 

 

“No, Lancelot. That’s a completely different thing,” Hunk says, quietly. 

 

“Never have I ever not wanted to kill my friends. Like right now. Y’all are stupid,” Keith says, sitting up slowly.

 

“That’s not how the game works. Like, at all.” Hunk says.

 

“And don’t threaten to murder anyone,” Lance says, way too loudly. “That’s  _ mean. _ ” He wrinkles his nose.

 

Pidge tosses Keith a half-empty bottle of something. “Just say something you’ve never done. If someone here has done it, then they gotta drink.” 

“Never have I ever… jumped off a building,” Hunk says, grinning. “See? If we do it like this then nobody has to drink, it’s fun-” 

 

Slowly, so slowly, Keith raises the bottle to his lips. The alcohol tastes bitter and gross on his tongue, but he swallows it down anyway. Nearby, he watches as Shiro takes a quick swig from the craft beer that he’d somehow collected. 

 

“Um,” Lance says, eyes wide. “Please… uh… elaborate.” 

 

“It was  _ one time, _ ” Keith defends. 

 

“Twice,” Shiro corrects without missing a beat. “Unless we’re counting that time in San Francisco, too. Then that’s three.” 

 

It’s the first time that Shiro has really, truly directly addressed Keith ever since he sat down with the group. It makes Keith’s chest feel weird and light and heavy all at the same time. 

 

“San Fran doesn’t count, it was only like two stories.” 

 

“You’re doing a really poor job at elaborating.” Lance whines, “What the fuck, guys.” 

 

“Never have I ever named a goat after a colour,” Keith rushes, catching Pidge’s glare and grinning at her. “Drink up, loser.” 

 

“Never have I ever been yelled at by Kolivan,” Pidge says, raising an eyebrow at Keith. “ _ Drink up, _ ” she mocks his own words back at him. 

 

Lance and Keith both drink, and then Lance says, “Never have I ever made the best cookies in the world,” then, after a moment, when nobody moves. “ _ Hunk,  _ that one was for you.” 

 

“I don’t think that you’re supposed to directly target anybody specific during this game,” Hunk says, but he takes a drink anyway, a strange smile pulling at the edges of his lips,.“Never have I ever been fired from a job.” 

 

“You’ve been self-employed your entire life,” Pidge grunts. 

 

“Yeah. And never once have I had to fire myself.”

 

Lance drinks, and Keith glares at everybody when they look to him when he doesn’t drink. “I don’t get fired. I’m a good employee. Unlike  _ Lance,  _ apparently.” 

 

“Shiro, you should do one,” Hunk offers. 

 

Keith turns his head a bit to look at Shiro. He’s still sitting in front of Pidge, thought he’s moved a little bit away from her so that they’re not sitting in each other's space. He still has his shirt off, thought he doesn’t seem bothered by the chilly spring air. 

 

“Sure. Okay, um. Never have I ever… owned a cat.” 

 

Nobody moves. Hunk nudges Lance. “Buddy, you have a cat.” 

 

“No. That’s just the cat that lives with me. She’s not actually mine.” 

 

“You named her. You feed her.”

 

“Isn’t this game supposed to be dirty?” Lance says, “Let’s stop talking about that weird cat and start making this game interesting. Never have I ever had a threesome.” 

 

Keith bites his lip. Shiro catches his eye and holds his gaze, smirking. Keith’s stomach flips when Shiro takes a slow drink of beer, flicking his tongue over his upper lip when he’s done. 

 

“This is stupid,” Keith says, his face burning as he rips his eyes away from Shiro and takes a quick drink. “Who invented this game? I’m gonna. Fight them.” 

 

Lance laughs like a hyena, his head tipped back towards the sky. “I dunno what you’re talking about. This is the most fun I’ve ever had.”

 

“I don’t think that it needs to be dirty,” Pidge says. “Sex is gross.” 

 

“You just say that because you’re a virgin,” Lance laughs, his cheeks rosy. 

 

“No, I say that because it’s gross. And I don’t want it. Ever.” 

 

“Knock it off, Lance,” Keith says. 

 

“Never have I ever been married,” Hunk says loudly, before Lance can scream something back at Keith. 

 

“That’s  _ mean. _ ” Lance whines, “What the  _ fuck _ .” 

 

Hunk, to his credit, looks guilty. Lance just looks lost. The mood changes, a tense atmosphere suddenly falling over the group. Pidge fidgets and Shiro presses his shaking hands into the cool grass beneath him. 

 

“Keith, I’ll take you up on that offer to run the fuck away now,” Lance says, his voice too uncharacteristically quiet. 

 

“Yeah alright,” Keith says, because Lance is his friend even if he is the most irritating person on the planet sometimes. 

 

He hauls Lance to his feet and wraps an arm around his waist, keeping him steady as he sways drunkenly. 

 

“You alright?” he asks, once they’re out of earshot.

 

“Why... woul’ he  _ say  _ somethin’ like tha’?” Lance says, his voice so slurred that Keith has a hard time understanding him.

 

“I dunno.” Keith shrugs. “People are weird.” 

 

“Like you,” Lance says automatically. 

 

“Thanks,” Keith says.

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

Keith gets up early the next morning and heads out to the barn right away. He has a little bit of time to work on his bike before he has to go out and do work for Kolivan.

 

“Tell me the truth,” Pidge says, from where she’s leaning against a stall door. “I’ve been lied to way too much to deal with your shit. You said you had no idea who he was and it turns out you’ve known him for eight years?” She’s angry, and she has every right to be. 

 

It’s difficult to always be completely honest. But Keith tries, now, for Pidge. 

 

He starts off with. “I have a shitty past. But he was the best part of it. He made things  _ better,  _ he made me feel  _ alive  _ and  _ worth something  _ and after everything else, that’s all that mattered. He gave me another chance.” 

 

He moves to the past, shifting over his mindset. He moves over close to Pidge, leaning a hip against the stall door and crossing his arms over his chest. He speaks mechanically, listing off facts and trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. 

 

He tells her about how they met, he tells her about the quick friendship and how something had bloomed in his chest when he heard Shiro’s bright laugh. He tells her about the time Shiro had taken a bullet for him and he tells her about the tattoos and the long, cold nights. 

 

He tells her everything because he needs her to understand. He tells her because he  _ knows  _ that she will understand, if he lays it all out for her. Because before Pidge gave up on the human race - before she threw her life into technology and pushed people away, she had a family. 

 

And her family meant the world to her.

 

In a dying, post-war world where the bad guys won, family means everything, and if you are alone, the wolves will swallow you whole. 

 

When he’s done, she says, “I’m angry at you for lying. Don’t do that shit, not to me at least. But I get it, y’know? We all have… demons in our pasts. And angels.” She takes a deep breath before continuing, “And it’s… it’s easier, sometimes. To leave both the demons and the angels behind, right? Because they’re so connected with each other that you can’t have one without the other. I get it. It’s why I don’t talk about Matt, too.” 

 

“I know.” Keith says. 

 

He feels a strong wave a gratitude wash over him when she smiles at him, small, understandingly. She gets it, he knows he does. And it’s great, really, to feel less alone in a world so big and cold.

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

Kolivan still seems to be clinging onto some hopeless, idealistic beliefs. He tells Keith to go out and repair the fences to the south of the property. 

 

“Just in case we get more horses,” he had said, as if the hotel is ever going to bring in enough revenue to afford horses. 

 

Keith’s sweaty. Summer is coming on heavily, and the sun beats down on his bare back. He doesn’t mind the heat - in fact, he likes it. It reminds himself of the desert-town that he had lived in with his mother and uncle as a young child. Good memories are tied to that sort of warmth. Late nights riding behind his uncle on a hoverbike, speeding through sand dunes and chasing some poor, unfortunate rabbits. Early mornings, making lemonade in a huge jug, and then lugging it out to the curb, carefully painting ‘ _ 50 cents/cup _ ’ onto an empty envelope that had held bills once upon a time. 

 

He’d give the money to his mother. 

 

She would sit on the edge of her bed, glaring down at a binder and on the phone with the bank and Keith - tiny, five-year-old Keith, would creep in and hand her a zip-lock bag of change. 

 

She cried, sometimes, when he did that. But she explained that she wasn’t crying because she was sad. She told Keith to save up his money, to get out of the town and go to school. She told him to not trust the government and to never go to war, even if he was promised money. She told him to be brave. She always told him to be brave. 

 

He nails a piece of barbed wire into place, wearing a thick pair of work gloves so that he doesn’t have to bandage up bleeding hands. 

 

It’s nice, this work is. It’s methodical, he doesn’t need to use much brain power to accomplish the needed task. It’s nice to think. 

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

“I’m not saying that  _ Kill Bill _ was a bad movie. But  _ The Hateful Eight _ is obviously better.” 

 

“How dare you disgrace Uma Thurman like this. I can’t believe you.” 

 

“But  _ The Hateful Eight _ is about humanity and how, at the end of the day, humans are just broken souls. It really is quite elegant, if you look at the big picture.” 

 

“ _ The Hateful Eight _ was just Quentin Tarantino wanting to do some violent bullshit.  _ Kill Bill _ is about revenge and a mother’s love for her child. 

Never, not once, in Keith’s entire life, did he ever think that he would walk in on Lance and Shiro having an argument about movies. 

 

Shiro says, calmly, “You’re wrong,” and Lance crosses his arms over his chest and glares.

 

“Keith! Hey.” Lance’s head spins in Keith direction, and Keith loses all hope of sneaking off to the barn. He was going to take his bike out, he really was. He planned for it and everything. 

 

“Don’t ask my opinion.” Keith saunters over, only too aware that he is coated in sweat and grime, shirtless, and ripped jeans riding dangerously low on his hips. “I have no opinions.”

 

His eyes skim over Shiro, whoes eyes seem to be having trouble moving past Keith’s chest. Keith smirks, and pulls the rubber band out of his hair so that it falls back down around his face, sticking to his skin. 

 

“ _ Kill Bill _ or  _ The Hateful Eight _ ?” Lance presses. “There’s a right answer and the right answer is  _ Kill Bill _ .” Lance takes a sip from a bottle of water, probably still nursing one hell of a hangover. “Right Shiro?” 

 

Shiro coughs, a dusting of pink coating his cheeks. “Uh. Nope.” 

 

“Shiro’s right,” Keith says. “ _ The Hateful Eight _ is so much better.”

 

“You’re only taking his side because y’all used to fuck,” Lance grumbles.

 

“No, I’m taking his side because he’s right, asshole.” 

 

“Why is everyone always against me?” Lance whines, and then he throws his plastic water bottle in the general direction of Keith. It falls short about two feet to Keith’s left.

 

“I think you’re great, Lance,” Shiro says sincerely, and gives Lance an honest-to-god genuine smile. It throws Keith off a bit. 

 

“You’re great, too,” Lance chirps back. “I especially like the part where you have biceps.”

 

Shiro throws his head back and laughs, and it’s good that someone can deal with Lance’s bullshit, Keith thinks. 

 

“Well, I’m gonna go work on my bike,” Keith says, not backing away, not yet. 

 

“Oh. Okay. I’ll - I’ll see you later?” Shiro meets Keith’s eyes and something in Keith’s stomach rolls over. Shiro came here for a reason. Shiro came here for a friend at the end of the world. 

 

Who is Keith to deny him that. Besides, he’s curious. “Yeah. Or, you could come with me.” 

 

There’s a pause. Keith raises his chin, baring his neck, a little, exposing himself as a challenge. Lance is oblivious to Shiro’s calculating gaze. “Are you sure?” he asks. 

 

“Sure. Why the fuck not, Shi?” And he lets the lighthearted,  _ happy  _ emotion brewing in his heart flow into the words. He’s had a good day. 

 

“See ya later, losers!” Lance shouts after them.

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

Old habits die hard.

 

“This place is nice.” Shiro’s hands are shoved into his pockets, and he rocks back onto his heels, staring up to the loft and surveying the empty stalls. “Different from the city.”

 

“Yeah. It takes a while to get used to. But it’s - better. Quieter.” Keith grabs an old, stained flannel shirt and pulls it on, buttoning it almost all of the way up. 

 

“You like it?”

 

Keith nods. He moves closer to his bike and grabs a screwdriver out of his toolbox. The bike is perfect, there’s not a thing on it that needs fixing at all. But he’s always in a constant state of taking it apart and then putting all the pieces back together again.

 

Old habits, they die hard. 

 

But in the end, most things do, don’t they.

 

Shiro settles into one of the haybales lining the walls of the barn. “Didn't think you’d want to spend time with me.”

 

“Well.” It’s hard to find an answer that makes sense. It’s hard to make sense of the situation at all. He gives up with a shrug. 

 

“S’all right,” Shiro says, with a wave of a hand. “Just. Don’t feel… obligated. Or anything.”

 

Keith twists a screw between his fingers, catching his lower lip between his teeth. Thoughtful. “I’ve spent so long running and hiding. It’s nice to - Y’know.” 

 

“Face your past?” Shiro fills in, a hint of a question to the uplift in his tone. 

 

Keith snorts, “Facing  _ everything. _ ” He sets the screwdriver to the side and turns, looking at Shiro. He sits down properly, leaning against the front tire of his bike. “The past is a bitch.”

 

“There were some good parts,” Shiro says.

 

Keith tilts his head back. “Like what? I remember running from the law and beating people up.”

 

“Was that all it was to you?” 

 

Keith hums noncommittally. 

 

“Remember the exhilaration? That - that feeling of  _ freedom,  _ like never before. Always one step ahead of the people after us, always one step closer to an understanding of happiness. Remember - you should remember the way that neon lights reflected across the pavement in the rain. What about feeling on top of the world because - Me and you and Acxa and Ulaz and Allura - we had eachother. That was good. There were good parts.” Shiro breaks on in a breathy laugh. He has a smile etched upon his face. Keith bites the back of his hand. 

 

“Oh.” He takes a deep breath. “Yeah I - okay.” Despite himself, he smiles. “Sure.”

 

“And the hoverbike races. God knows I’ll always miss those.” 

 

“They were amazing, weren’t they?” 

 

“The  _ competition  _ was amazing. Really, I never would have come to the city if I hadn’t heard that the best hoverbike racer lived there.”

 

“I know,” Keith says. “You were good competition too, though. I mean - you beat me like once or twice.” 

 

“Three times,” Shiro says with a grin. “San Francisco, remember?” 

 

“Does that one count? I seem to remember it being a tie.”

 

Shiro smiles. “Nah. ‘Lura said I won.”

 

“That’s because she felt sorry for you.” 

 

Shiro brushes his hair back from his eyes, and Keith traces over his shaking hands. 

 

“Have you seen them recently? Allura and the rest?” His voice sounds a little scared, maybe. They’d all lived dangerous lives in the city. They could be anywhere, now. 

 

“Not recently, no. I’ve been in contact with Ulaz, but Allura had to run. Acxa dropped off the map completely. I think she’s okay.”

 

“You think?”

 

“It’s hard to tell. I kept an eye on the public executions though. And the wanted persons list. She’s stayed hidden.”

 

“Ulaz still in the city?”

 

“He’s trying to hold that place together by himself.”

 

“He loves the city. He’d do anything for it.” 

 

“I wish he wouldn’t have to die for it.” Shiro sighs. 

 

“If we can die for something then that means we can live for something.” Keith tilts his head. “So why me, then? You could've gone with ‘Lure. Or Acxa, for that matter.”

 

“The world’s ending, Keith. Do you really think I would go to anyone else?”

 

“That’s not true. S’not ending.” 

 

“Have you seen the pictures from the garrison? Have you listened to any of the news? There’s no denying it.” Shiro frowns, like he’s trying to figure out a jigsaw puzzle. “Are you scared?” 

 

“Of death? You know I’m not.”

 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

 

Keith breaths in through his nose. He fiddles with the collar of his flannel. He takes another breath. He counts his heartbeat, feeling the thud of it against his ribcage. Somewhere, the straw rustles and baby goats bleat. “I don’t want to be one of those people who panic because they suddenly realise that they’ve not achieved anything with their life,” he finally says, and he watches as recognition washes over Shiro’s features. 

 

“You think you’ve achieved everything you could ever want?” It is said as a lighthearted question, teasing, almost, but Keith can tell, from the forward tilt of Shiro’s body and the sharp eyes, that he’s being assessed. This is a test.

 

He tilts his head to the side, and scratches at the side of his neck. Shiro’s eyes are captivating - astonishingly bright. He reminds himself to breath again, and averts his eyes just to the left of Shiro, to clear his mind. 

 

He says, after some consideration, “The meaning of life is to - to create a legacy, right? Like - it’s to make an impact on other people’s lives so that you’re not forgotten after death. Essentially, it’s making sure that you can live forever through other people’s memories, right?”

 

“You could think of it that way.”

 

“Yeah. Or, you could say that the meaning of life is to love and to be loved. To - I don’t know - marry some middle class businessman and live in a house with a dog and some kids. White picket fence and everything, the whole deal - pension, insurance, healthcare.”

 

“Is that love?” It’s too early for this conversation. They’re too sober. The sky is too bright.

 

“Sure, for some people.”

 

“And for you?”

 

“Nah. That sounds like hell, honestly.”

 

Shiro grins, bright and blinding. “Well then it’s a good thing that I don’t have a picket fence. Or a house, for that matter.”

 

“I wouldn’t say no to a dog, though,” Keith adds with a smirk.

 

There’s a pull in his chest, just above his sternum, begging him to move  _ closer  _ to Shiro. The ease and familiarity is as strong as it ever was, back in the city when all that mattered was living until the sun rose above the skyscrapers. 

 

“I was scared that you were going to be different,” Shiro says, thoughtfully, the playful tone abandoned. “I spent so long chasing after you and I was terrified that when I finally caught up; you’d be an entirely different person.” 

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. But turns out…” He chuckles, low in his throat. “You’re the same Keith I’ve always known.”

 

 


	5. The Night we Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly he needs fresh air, his chest is too tight, it’s too cold. Goosebumps coat his bare arms and his eyes burn. “What?” It comes out broken, caught on the edge of a gasp.

 

 

They’ve fallen into step like partners of an intricate, alluring dance. It’s how they’ve always been, Keith reflects, staring up into the deep abyss of space as if it can offer him some sort of answer to how the past and the present are able to blend together as seamlessly as they do now.

 

“Keith?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You’re here.”

 

“I’m always here.”

 

“Sometimes it’s like you’re up in space. Instead of on this godforsaken planet.”

 

Shiro’s voice is soft, and they speak as if they are trying to keep secrets between them. Keith’s not sure how they ended up here, in the future with an old, dusty bottle of Tequila nestled in the dry grass between them. They’re too close, Keith thinks. But somehow, now, with the stars above them, that doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.

 

“This world is…”

 

“I get it,” Shiro fills in, when Keith can’t find an end to his sentence; a way to catalogue and relay his disrupted and fragmented train of thought. “You don’t feel like you belong here, right?”

 

Dry grass pokes into the back of Keith’s neck. The stars are bright.

 

“I don’t think I ever belonged.”

 

“You belonged in the city.”

 

“Only because of the people there.”

 

“So, you belong to people instead of the planet?”

 

“I don’t belong to anybody.”

 

The liquor clouds his thoughts, the stars cloud his eyes. Shiro’s scent, his closeness, his raspy voice, it clouds his judgement.

 

But the sky is clear.

 

“Hey,” Keith says, suddenly.

 

“What?”

 

“There’s your star.” Keith points, raising his hand to the air.

 

“And there’s yours,” Shiro points out. “Pretentious.”

 

Shiro grabs at the bottle and takes a delicate sip. Through lidded eyes, Keith watches his movements. The liquid sloshes as Shiro’s hands tremble.

 

“Your hands,” Keith says, slowly, slurred. “You okay?”

 

Shiro barks out a surprised, startled laugh. The sound gets swallowed up by empty farmland. “Figured you’d ask eventually.”

 

“Yeah. Well, you weren’t gonna say anything. So.”

 

“I was.” Shiro puts the bottle back down and lifts a hand up, flipping his palm up and watching it shake. There’s fear in his eyes, the type of fear the Keith never wants to see on anybody. “Going to tell you, that is.” He sighs, heavily. He hesitates for too many long seconds and then flops down to his back beside Keith. “Maybe later. I need to. Drink more, I think.”

 

“You don’t have to be nervous around me,” Keith says, cautiously.

 

“It’s not because of you,” Shiro says, quickly.

 

“Okay,” Keith says, hushed, mind already elsewhere. “Okay.”

 

 _Oh, gods. How did we end up here, of all places?_ Keith’s brain screams at him. They had talked for a long time, in the barn, earlier in the day when the sun still shone proudly upon the Earth. Pidge had joined them for a brief segment of time, herding up her goats and bedding them all down so that they wouldn’t have yet another incident with Kolivan in the early hours of the morning.

 

Keith had meant to walk Shiro back to the hotel, he thinks, once it got late.

 

But somewhere between the barn and the hotel Keith-

 

Or maybe, was it Shiro, who grabbed the other by the elbow and had leaned in close, alcohol already laced like tantalizing poison upon their lips and said, _“Remember in the city with the - the stars, right? And - remember Ulaz and Acxa and Allura and how we would all - remember? I miss that, I think I miss that more than anything else in that stupid fucking city.”_

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

_Keith rolls down the window and sticks his head and most of his torso out, laughing so loudly he bets that the man on the goddamn moon can hear his happiness._

 

_The mountains are so high, and they stretch up to the sky on either side of him. Shiro presses his foot harder against the accelerator and they rocket forward, following a highway toward a ghost town, following a highway to someplace far, far away from the death and despair that the city brings to them so readily._

 

_It’s the first and last break that they get, really, together. But oh, it’s worth it._

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

They’re in a clearing, in the forest, by all definitions. But it fades out into farmland, and the sky is void of branches to blot out the inky blue. Keith watches the stars as he always had; religiously.

 

“Shiro.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

He takes a breath, like he has to mentally prepare himself to ask a question that has been on the edge of his lips ever since Shiro showed up. “When I left the city. Like - that morning when you woke up and I… I wasn't there, what did you do? What did everybody do?” He knows he wouldn’t be asking if he was sober.

 

“Do you really want to know?” Shiro gives him a chance to back out, he gives him a chance to shrug it off and move on.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay.” Shiro says and takes a long drink.

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

_There was a build-up of events, intertwined with a panicked suffering and desperate pleas. The breaking point wasn’t clean - it wasn’t a swift death. It was a festering infection, growing in the heart of a damaged city and leaking into the people who resided there._

 

_“Hey. Ace - Cherry Bomb, baby -” His voice cuts off with a wet cough, and when he brings his hand away from his mouth, it’s dripping with fresh blood._

 

_“Takashi.”_

 

_“Ace.” Shiro smiled, but it’s small, defeated._

 

_“You’re going to be fine.”_

 

_“Where’s Ulaz?”_

 

_“He’s on his way. Just - hang on, Shi.”_

 

_Shiro’s blood ran down Keith’s arm. There’s a shout - somewhere, in the background, behind the rushing in Keith’s ears._

 

_“You should go help them,” Shiro said, but he didn’t let go of Keith. He held on tightening, fingers caked with red burning around Keith’s forearm, digging into his pale skin._

 

_“No. I won’t leave you. Not here.”_

 

_“When Ulaz gets here -”_

 

_Keith sighed, low and sad and scared. Then before Shiro can go on, he said, “I’ll go. When Ulaz is here to save your sorry ass.”_

 

_“Ace -”_

 

_“It’s fine. It’s fine. It's fine that you were shot and - and bleeding out in my arms again and It’s fine that the fucking medic won’t get here fast enough and it’s so bloody fine that somebody is getting kidnapped or drugged or - or -” Keith bit at his lip before a sob can break through He’s supposed to be strong. “But all I have is you, Takashi. Shi. And I can’t lose you. I won’t.”_

 

_“Ace, babe.”_

 

_“You should be quiet. Save your strength.”_

 

_“I love you.”_

 

_“You shouldn’t.”_

 

_“Too late.”_

 

_“Shi -”_

 

_“Call Ulaz again. I don’t think that I can - it hurts to breath.” His voice is broken, raw. “Hey Keith. If I don’t make it out of here…”_

 

_“Don’t say shit like that. You’re gonna be fine.”_

 

_“Don’t blame yourself, okay? None of this is your fault.”_

 

_“All of this is my fault.”_

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

Keith watches as Shiro chews his lip thoughtfully, playing for time, maybe.

 

“I don’t know where to start,” he says, finally. “It’s all so - muddled up. So much happened all at once, so quickly it was impossible to keep track of.”

 

“Start - maybe start after you… after you woke up, at - at Ulaz’s little hospital.” Keith grabs the bottle, and tips it back so that the amber liquid can slosh into his mouth. “Was Acxa there? Allura? Were they okay?” He cuts himself off before the questions come pouring out.

 

“Yeah. Alright.” Shiro pushes himself up into a sitting position. “Alright. Acxa was there when I woke up. She had just got out of surgery herself. She barely let them give her any drugs, so she - she was hurting.”

 

“Did she cry?” Acxa never cried. Acxa was not the type of person to allow herself the time to cry.

 

“Yes. She laid in bed with me while we waited for Allura to. I mean - for Ulaz to finish working on her. Thace, Antok and Regris were there too and they kept offering to take over for Ulaz so that he could have a break, but he wouldn’t leave. Not until everybody was safe.” He takes a long drink. Keith watches his throat as he swallows.

 

Keith lets the silence calm him. He gives Shiro the time to work up the courage to begin speaking again.

“Allura got out after a few hours. The shrapnel really… it really got to her. It hit her the worst. She was the closest, when it happened.”

 

“I know,” Keith says. Guilt crashes over him like a storm he has no hope of containing.

 

“She couldn’t move. She was so full of painkillers that she couldn’t even begin to see straight so we - Acxa and I - snuck over to her room. Ulaz didn’t want us bothering her. But he knew he couldn’t stop us if we tried, so. It was a slow walk - you should’ve seen us, hobbling along like the oldies. Acxa toughed it out but I had to stop halfway for a wheelchair.”

 

Shiro rolls his shoulders back and ducks his head down, his forelock of white hair flopping over his eyes. “We were a mess. But - we were okay. Alive, and all. Obviously. Allura was a bit touch-and-go for a while. We all squeezed onto her little cot - you know the ones that Ulaz had, all lumpy and uncomfortable but they were off the ground and clean, for the most part.”

 

It’s hurting Shiro, Keith realises drunkenly, to talk about this.

 

“She asked about you, when she was coherent enough to know which way was up and which was down. She kept asking, over and over, if you were okay. I didn’t -” Shiro pauses and takes a deep breath. Like he’s trying to stop himself from feeling phantom pain. “I didn’t know what to say so I just - I said that you were fine. Just that you had gone off after the guys who did it and that you’d be back soon.”

 

“But I didn’t.”

 

“You didn’t. Go after them. Or come back, really.” He’s bitter. He has the right.

 

“There was nobody to go after.”

 

There’s a break, for a second, where Keith can do nothing but hold Shiro’s captivating gaze, like a deer caught in the headlights.

 

Then, Shiro continues, after shaking his head slowly. “I left as soon as I knew Allura and Acxa would be okay. Ulaz had gone to sleep so Thace was holding down the fort. You - I think you kinda know what happened at this part.”

 

“You looked for me.”

 

“I found you,” Shiro says. “You were sitting on the roof, staring down at the wreck, covered in blood. I don’t think you noticed that you were crying. You were smoking for the first time in a year and you were sitting on the edge a gun in each hand, knives strapped to you as they always were and - and I.” He stops there, like he can’t go on.

 

There’s a moment where Keith wants to reach out, to touch Shiro. To calm his shaking body and comfort his shattered mind. Instead, he says, “You grabbed me. You ripped the guns from my hands and you threw them to the side.” It’s the booze talking now, he knows it is. “You held me like I was the only thing that mattered, and you kept saying that you loved me, like it was a goddamn mantra.”

 

Silence is a blanket, and it sweeps over them. Keith wets his lips with his tongue and sits up, slowly. He no longer looks toward the sky, but rather toward Shiro, whose eyes are swimming with sadness.

 

“I thought that you’d stay, for a second there. I thought that I had caught up to you soon enough and that you wouldn’t run. But you didn’t say anything and then you left. You just - you pushed me away and jumped down the fire escape. You didn’t look back, so you didn’t see me try to follow. I pulled out half my stitches and undid a ton of Ulaz’s work.”

 

It’s hard to find words to make up for all the time that has passed between them.

 

Shiro plunges forwards, and Keith sits up subconsciously, shifting closer to Shiro, as if in a trance.

 

“So - so after that. I went back to the hospital. Thace yelled at me a bit for being reckless and then re-did my sutures without any painkillers and sent me back to bed. I woke up eighteen hours later with a killer migraine and a murderous Acxa. She wanted to know where you were, she wanted to know what happened.” He takes a deep breath. Keith hands him his own half-empty bottle silently, and Shiro knocks it back like he’s drinking iced tea instead of gin.

 

“I told her everything that I knew. She asked if I was going to go after you, and I told her that I didn’t know. She left a few days later. The government got wind of her and they saw her face so she’s completely off the grid…Thace might know where she is though. They were always close. I needed to stay with Allura until she recovered. I did a bit of work downtown with Ulaz - helping people out, instead of chasing after the bad ones.”

 

Shiro takes a long drink, “It was weird. We all tried to make the best of the worst goddamn situation possible. I don’t think that we really noticed it at the time, but you really did hold the entire team together. If it was me instead of you who left, Acxa would have stayed. So would Allura.”

 

“They saved my life when I was a kid.”

 

“They saved hundreds of lives.” Shiro tilts his head. "You saved lives, too, Keith. You didn't owe that shitty city anything, and yet you saved lives and tried to help as many people as you possibly could."

 

"I didn't just save lives. I took them, too."

 

“We all did.” It’s Shiro, this time, who shifts closer. “It was part of the job.”

 

Keith plucks the bottle from Shiro’s shaking fingers. He nurses it slowly, and his eyes flit back up toward the sky.

 

“So… after Allura left, that’s when you started tracking me down?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And now that you’ve found me. What’s the plan? What did you hope to achieve?”

 

“That’s another long story.”

 

“It’s a good thing we’ve got all the time in the world.”

Shiro doesn’t respond right away. In fact, he just sighs and stares off into the distance, like he can find the answers to Keith’s questions written into the darkness of the night. Keith gets an itch to do something reckless - to do something stupid. Maybe it’s Shiro’s presence, sending his mind back to a time when it was _okay_ to chase after adrenaline and fight until your knuckles are raw and bleeding.

 

Maybe he’s just a bit messed up - but he craves that so much, now. The rush of life. He doesn’t get that much, at Westmoor. Day in, day out it’s the same pattern, the same events, over and over, undying though the world around them smolders and falls to dust.

 

His vertebrae crack when he arches his back. The sound reverberates around the clearing, and Keith hauls himself to his feel. He needs to _move._

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Race me, old timer. To the end of the field and back.” Keith holds out his hand to Shiro, and pulls him up when he grasps at it. “Winner gets the last bottle of-”

 

“Vodka’s all that there’s left.”

 

“Winner gets the last bottle of vodka.”

“Oh, Ace. You’re goin’ down,” Shiro says, with that same old competitive grin.

 

“You wish,” Keith retorts.

 

They stand next to each other, coiled like a pair of cobras ready to spring. It feels like old times.

 

“On your marks… get set…”

 

“Go!” Keith shouts, and the wind whistles through his ears.

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

_“So you’re the famous Keith Kogane, then.” The man grins at Keith. His eyes are warm, and Keith lets his eyes trace over the man’s form, cataloguing the broad shoulders and confident strut._

 

_Keith holds out his hand and flashes his teeth, a challenge. “You must be Shirogane.”_

 

_“Please, call me Shiro.”_

 

_Keith nods, and shakes his hand once.  “Allura thinks you have a chance at beating me,” Keith comments._

 

_“She’s a smart one.”_

 

_“Nobody’s ever beaten me before.” Keith leans back against his hoverbike, crossing his arms over his chest._

 

_“Well I suppose there’s a first time for everything,” Shiro says, and there’s a hint of a fight there - like he’s itching to escape, itching for a release just as much as Keith is._

 

_“We’ll see about that.”_

 

_There’s a silence, for a moment. They stare at each other, sizing the other up, trying to understand the other without saying anything outright._

 

_“I’ll see you on the finish line,” Shiro says, and backs away with a small salute._

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

His body thrums with blood, rushing through his veins. But it’s overthrown by the alcohol, and Keith stumbles and falls halfway across the field, skidding to a halt amongst dried shrubs. Shiro jogs to a halt, chuckling.

 

“Nice one, Keith.”

 

“It’s the _ground,_ ” Keith says, propping himself up and frowning. “It grabbed my leg.” He stumbles forwards a bit as he stands up, and Shiro automatically hooks an arm around his waist, fingers splayed against Keith’s hip bone.

 

“I’m sure it did. Of course. That’s the only possible explanation.”

 

“Shut it, Shirogane,” Keith says, though it lacks any real heat. Shiro is comfortable and warm, and Keith leans into him without thinking.

 

Shiro tenses a little bit at that but doesn’t pull away, so Keith stays fixed to his side as they walk back to where their stuff lies, abandoned, on a bed of dried grass.

 

They sink down to the ground there, and Keith can’t really find it in him to lean away from Shiro. It’s the alcohol, his brain helpfully supplies him. Just the alcohol, that’s all. He rests his head against Shiro’s shoulder, and Shiro drops the hand from around his waist, shifting a bit so that he’s farther behind Keith, making it easier for him to lean against.

 

“I forgot you were a cuddly drunk,” Shiro says with a low chuckle.

“Allow me to remind you.” Keith tilts his head up and winks exaggeratedly.

“We should probably head back,” Shiro says, instead of acknowledging Keith.

 

“But you haven’t told me about your - your hands yet, Shi,” Keith says, and his head spins a bit. Maybe he did drink a little too much. “Why do they shake?”

 

He takes a deep breath before replying. “It’s late, Keith. You’re really drunk… maybe this is a conversation for another time.”

 

“You’re avoiding it.”

 

“It’s not something you’re supposed to tell someone when they’re drunk off their ass.” There’s a hard defiance in his voice; he’s not going to talk.

 

“Tomorrow,” Keith says. “No more excuses.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You have to promise,” Keith says. “You gotta promise me that you will.”

 

“I promise” Shiro says, and tilts his head so that his cheek is pillowed against the top of Keith’s head. “First thing tomorrow, I swear.”

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

There’s a monster, in his dreams.

 

It chases him with sharp claws and wears Keith’s face. It’s eyes are burning yellow and it’s teeth are sharpened into piercing points. It chases him through a forest, and the faces of his friends - his _family_ are suck within the branches, writhing and screaming in pain.

 

Keith tries to scream but nothing comes out, like his vocal cords had been slices apart, filled into thin slices. He runs but he’s not _fast enough._

 

He trips and falls and the scenery morphs into his bedroom, back when he was young and still living with his mother.

 

Shiro’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his head buried in his hands, but when he looks up, he has Keith’s face and he’s saying, over and over and over again, like a fucking mantra; “ _You killed us, Keith. You did. You killed us, Keith. You did. You killed us, Keith. You did._ ”

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

He wakes up covered in sweat, a scream on the edge of his lips. His chest burns with ice _,_ and he presses his hands to the flesh, like his can push down the pain.

 

It’s fear, he realises. That’s what’s frozen in his chest.

 

The headache hits him a moment later, and his stomach rolls over uncomfortably.

 

“Fuck,” He mumbles, sitting up as slowly as he possibly can.

 

“Keith?” Shiro’s voice is still rough from sleep. The bed shifts.

 

And - the worst thing is that Keith can’t really remember what happened the previous night, past a certain point. Shiro lies in his bed next to him. He’s wearing a shirt, Keith realises at a glance. He lets out a small sigh of relief.

 

“Head hurts.”

 

“Water and drugs on bedside table.” Shiro doesn’t appear to not yet be fully awake, “don’t die.”

 

Keith fumbles for the water bottle. It’s sealed. Old habits, of course. They never really die. He pops three advil tablets into his mouth and swallows them dry before cracking open the water bottle and downing half of it before flopping back down onto his pillows.

 

“Fuck this, man. I’m never drinking again.”

 

He goes back to sleep then, and wakes up hours later, when his room is bathed in late-morning light and Shiro is sitting up against the headboard, flipping through a worn copy of _Macbeth._

 

“Head feeling any better?” Shiro asks, in lieu of a goodmorning _._

 

“Feels like I just got beaten up,” Keith grumbles, and rolls over form his back to his side, shoving a hand under his pillow. “You gonna tell me now?”

 

Shiro sighs. He’s been doing that a lot, Keith has noticed. “Sure. Alright.” He sounds tired, defeated. Like he’d been psyching himself up for something for _hours,_ but now that he actually has to say the words, he’s deflating.

 

“So… my hands.” Keith’s glad that Shiro’s voice is quiet, taking the hangover into account.

 

“Your hands.”

 

“They shake. A lot. I can’t control it - I wish I could.”

 

“I’ve noticed.” Keith’s voice is soft. “I thought - maybe it was something to do with… with what happened right before I left?”

 

“No- no, god no, Keith,” Shiro says quickly. “It has nothing to do with you.”

 

“So, what is it, then?”

 

Shiro tilts his head up to the ceiling. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and rashly, Keith’s hand darts out to grasp at one of Shiro’s gently. Shiro looks down at him in surprise, but a little smirk quirks the corner of his lips.

 

“Okay. Okay I’m just gonna- I’m just gonna say it, alright. And then. You can ask questions, okay?” His voice is halted, shaking. Keith rubs a thumb over his knuckles. It feels like old times, and Keith can’t really pinpoint the moment he let his barriers down around Shiro again.

 

“Okay,” Keith says, and tries to think of when exactly, yesterday night, something clicked into place. It was like he’d been -

 

He’d been running from his past for so long, over such a huge amount of distance, but now his past -- _Shiro_ \-- has caught up to him, and everything falls into place like a puzzle. Everything fits together just as it had in the past, years ago, when they were stupid kids in a city so big.

 

“I have a disease.”

 

Keith’s thumb stops moving along Shiro’s hand.

 

“And it’s not getting any better. It’s genetic, Ulaz said. Degenerative muscles, or something.” Shiro ducks his head. Keith tries to not be scared.

 

There’s sadness in his tone. His back hunches, ever so slightly. “It’s um - yeah.” Shiro takes a deep breath. Keith gives him time, because the truth is hard, especially when it’s laced through with pain. “Degenerative muscle disease,” Shiro says after a long pause. “It’s. Well, slowly killing all my muscle, essentially.”

 

It’s cold in the room, suddenly. Keith says, “Are you going to be okay?” But he knows the answer before Shiro replies.

 

“No. There’s - there’s treatments. But it’s expensive and… well, the world’s gonna end anyway.”

 

“How long?” The question comes out small.

 

“Two months. Give or take.” There’s no silence, just Shiro rushing forwards, stumbling over words, “It could be years though, it just depends on how things start breaking down and which ones. So like - obviously, if my heart or diaphragm stops working then… then there’s less time. That’s why my hands are shaky, and I get really tired if I’m standing or walking for too long but it’s - it’s okay. I’ve accepted it, I think.”

 

“You’re… you’re dying?” Keith recoils, as if he’d been slapped, when the weight of Shiro’s words settle across the too-small room.

 

Suddenly he needs fresh air, his chest is too tight, it’s too cold. Goosebumps coat his bare arms and his eyes _burn._ “What?” It comes out broken, caught on the edge of a gasp.

 

“Shit, Keith. I need you to breath, okay?”

 

The voice sounds muffled to Keith’s ears.

 

Suddenly, there’s hands on either side of his face, thumbs swiping wetness away from below his cheeks.

 

“No no no no no no-” Keith breaths out half a sob. “-No, tell me you’re lying. What the - what the fuck, Shi.”

 

He closes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to watch as Shiro fumbles for words.

 

He slumps against Shiro, and strong arms pull him closer. He fists his hands into Shiro’s shirt and-

 

-And this, it can’t be happening. Because Shiro is always supposed to be strong. He’s watched Shiro jump from buildings and land on the top of a truck on one leg and then pivot, stab two people and shoot the third one that tries to run away. He’s watched Shiro defuse bombs, he’s watched him racing hoverbikes at two hundred kilometers per hour.

 

Shiro’s supposed to be strong.

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

_“Takashi,” Keith breaths into the darkness, breaths coming in pants as he tries to work himself down from a nightmare. “Shi, wake up.” He stretches a hand out, gripping at Shiro’s bicep and shaking him slightly._

 

_“M’wake,” Shiro mumbles, rolling over and loosely slipping an arm over Keith’s bare hip.  “You okay?”_

 

_“Bad dream,” Keith whispers into the darkness, and he curls into Shiro when he gathers him closer._

 

_“Wanna talk about it?”_

 

_Shiro pulls the blanket up around then a bit better, keeping the chill away. The sounds of the city reach them, but they’ve both long since learnt how to tune it out like meaningless white noise._

 

_“I couldn’t save you.” Keith feels his eyes burn again. Shiro cards his fingers steadily through Keith’s long hair, and hums low in his throat._

 

_“You and Axca and Allura were all - you were all hurt really bad, and there was nothing I could do to save you. The monsters were coming with their claws so I just - I just ran. I left you behind in the woods and you died. I felt it, Takashi. You died.”_

 

_“I’m right here,” he says, softly. “I’m alive.” He pulls at one of Keith’s hands, placing it against his chest, right above his heart, and holds it there, in place. “See? Can you feel the heartbeat?”_

 

_“...Yes.”_

 

_“See? I’m fine, baby.” He gathers Keith up, pulling him impossibly closer, and where their lips meet in the darkness of the night, they are warm. “I’m here. It’s okay. Everything will be okay.”_

 

 


	6. House of Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a very definite, undeniable Before as there is a very indisputed After. There’s a sliver of time between these two increments when all the pieces fall into place, and the world shifts from something too brutal to be innocent but too moral to be sinful.

 

There is a very definite, undeniable Before as there is a very indisputed After. There’s a sliver of time between these two increments when all the pieces fall into place, and the world shifts from something too brutal to be innocent but too moral to be sinful. 

 

In the beginning, he was chasing after his own happiness and satisfaction. He didn’t allow anybody to get in his way, didn’t let anybody get too close to even come near to knocking him off the path that he had predetermined for himself as a child, trying to piece together the adult world into something he could understand. 

 

The Before is filled with an urge to seek adrenaline. The Before is filled with late nights and sweaty bodies and the roar of a hoverbike engine beneath his thighs. 

“You almost beat me,” Keith admits finally, giving Shiro a small, two-fingered salute. “That doesn’t usually happen.” 

 

The med team is still looking over Shiro. Just over the halfway mark in a forty-five minute race, Shiro had been slammed into the wall. Not by Keith — he doesn’t ride dirty, he just rides to win. Shiro’s getting patched up anyway by a very exasperated man and a girl who looks too young to be in this kind of scene. But who’s Keith to judge. 

 

“You’re good,” Shiro says easily. “Maybe next time I’ll catch up with you.”

 

“Oh you’ll never catch me.” Keith grins, basking in the dim light flooding out of the window of Allura’s garage. It’s the homebase for the biggest street racing system in the country, and yet you could pass it on the street without batting an eye.

 

“We’ll see about that.” 

 

Shiro hisses then when one of the med workers presses down on his ribs with careful hands over a giant purple bruise. 

 

“Can’t catch me with broken ribs.” 

 

Keith tosses the cap to his water bottle into the air and catches it on its downward descent. Shiro tilts his head to the side and says something to the med worker in a low voice. 

 

Keith has only known of Shiro’s extance for a small portion of time — three hours tops. It feels as though a much larger quantity of time has passed, however. Even just the bare minimum smalltalk after a race — that stretched on for long enough that Keith’s muscles had started to burn — and the wind tugging at his hair had turned from playful to downright annoying. Because Keith doesn’t usually do this — the smalltalk, the casual lopsided smiles thrown around like they don’t mean anything. Even the teasing with people outside his immediate bubble is something that falls strikingly foreign to him. 

But there’s something different about Shiro. On a molecular level, maybe. It’s deep-rooted in Keith’s sternum, pulling him closer and closer to Shiro. He can’t stop himself. The knowing, intelligent glint in Shiro’s eyes, the way he carries danger in his shoulders, his long stride and easy disposition — it’s intriguing. But the hidden glances, the tense line in his forearm, the knitted eyebrows…

 

“He’s hiding something.”

 

It’s Acxa. She hands him a beer and nods towards Shiro. “Wonder what it is.” She says it like a statement, but Keith knows her well enough to recognize a promise. 

 

“Don’t go digging in other people’s business,” Keith warns lowly. “Can of worms and all that.”

 

“What, worried about me?” 

 

“No.” Keith pries off the bottle cap and takes a sip of the beer. It’s not his favorite, but he’s jittery after a race and a drink will help. “Unless I should be?”

 

“Don’t sweat it. You know I’ll be fine,” she says, with a sense of finality that doesn’t leave much room for continuation. Keith knows her well, and he can’t find a reason with enough backup information to solidify anything approximating  _ worry  _ in his mind. He knows that if she finds out something strange — a dark backdrop for the golden boy’s personality — that she would come to Keith. He’s not worried, no. Just wary because everybody in the city holds secrets, and sometimes things are best kept hidden away where they can do no harm.

 

Keith’s eyes wander, and he catches sight of Allura speaking with a group of young hopefuls a few yards away, barely out of earshot. She looks up moments later, catching Keith’s unwavering gaze. Bidding the future racers farewell, she walks over to them, hips swaying and high heels clicking against the wet pavement. “Good race, Keith.” 

 

“Thanks.” She has built her empire on the backs of hoverbike racers. She’s a dangerous business woman, each of her moves careful and calculate. Somehow, through everything, she’s able to maintain a carefully crafted demure to mask her tough underlayer. Keith respects her.

 

“Shiro almost beat you there. We might have a new champion in town.”

 

“Don’t sound so happy about it,” Keith says. “One could be led to believe that you’d consider replacing me.”

 

“Don’t be daft.” She ruffles his hair.

 

“He likes it,” Acxa says, hopping up to sit on hood of the old 1960’s Shelby Cobra. It’s painted a bright, summer’s sky blue with white fenders — it’s Allura’s pride and joy. “He likes the challenge.” 

 

“That’s good,” Allura says. “The competition is what keeps everything interesting.”

 

“It keeps the bidders bidding, you mean.” The words are said with a wide smile. “Hey guys.” It’s Ryan Kinkade, the photographer and videographer for the races. He used to be an active racer, but after an accident that left him reeling for weeks, he retired his bike for good. He fell hard,and fell bad, and nobody was there to pick up the pieces until the fog had already settled and he’d dragged himself halfway home.  

 

“Exactly,” Allura says, lips twitching up into a smile.

 

Ryan settles beside Keith, nudging their shoulders together for a fraction of a second. “Good race,” he says, mirroring Allura’s words though the tones are catastrophically different. Allura is professional, words crisp and rolling off her tongue like a poem. Ryan’s are warm, said so softly and carefully that it’s impossible to disregard the care etched into them. 

 

“Thanks,” Keith says, looking down at his feet and rubbing at the back of his neck. “It feels different without you there, though.” 

“Yeah well, the bidders just didn’t keep on bidding,” he says, keeping everything light and carefree, an art form that Keith hopes that he will be able to master one day. Ryan’s scars run deep — Keith was there the morning after the crash, dealing with the collateral damage of an accident that left too many scars in its wake. 

 

“They can’t very well bid on someone with a track record like yours,” Acxa says teasingly. 

 

“Three crashes within two weeks,” Allura fills in, and Ryan laughs.

 

“Alright, alright!” He holds his hands up in mock surrender, and Keith is endlessly grateful of the lack of tension surrounding the issue. 

 

The three of them — Ryan, Allura and Acxa — fall into easy chatter, simply another layer of background smalltalk, echoing around the street. The adrenaline is wearing off, racing highs dissipating into a regular dull satisfaction of another race won.

 

Keith’s eyes get caught on Shiro’s frame, and it’s hard to tear them away. Even now, with Kinkade by his side. He’s only a few meters away but deep in conversation with one of the new med workers. 

 

Later, Shiro comes over to Keith’s little group. His right side is littered with bandages but he doesn’t look too worse for wear considering the crash he’d had to deal with. 

They migrate inside after all the riders had been taken care of and the bikes put away. Keith’s been living in the loft of Allura’s garage with Acxa. It’s a small space, but they’ve made it work — they’ve made it home. Shiro introduces the med worker that he’d been talking to as Ulaz, and he fits into their group as if he had been there the entire time. 

 

“How long’ve you been in this scene?” Ulaz asks, three drinks in and picking a pizza crust apart. 

 

“Two years,” Keith says smoothly, nursing a beer. “Going on three. Got here when I was fifteen and found Acxa and ‘Lura pretty soon after.” He shrugs. “The rest is history.” 

 

Ulaz nods sympathetically. “You’re young, then. Good for you, finding a place like this.” 

 

“Yeah.” Keith chuckles, throwing a fond smile in Allura and Acxa’s general directions. “I’m not sure where I’d have ended up, if not here.” 

 

“You’d have been fine!” Acxa laughs, chucking a pizza crust at his head. “This guy here — he’s a survivor. Don’t let his weak, baby-like arms confuse you.” Her disposition is soft; she means it. “Anyway, I’ve been here my entire life. Parents were gone when I was a kid and Allura found me on the streets, said she had a job for me if I wanted it.” 

 

“‘Lura saved my sorry ass too.” Ryan says, speaking from beside Keith. “We all owe her.” He doesn’t go into detail, and Keith doesn’t blame him. The mood right now, though the words are heavy, remains upbeat, helped by slightly tipsy states and stomachs full of pizza. Earlier Keith had thrown some Metallica on record, and it fills in any silence that has the potential to morph the atmosphere into something serious. 

 

“She’s a regular saint around here,” Shiro says, breaking his silence. “I should've come to the city earlier.”

 

“You’re here now.” Allura smiles blindingly “You all are. And I have to say, it is such a pleasure having you all here”

 

“Don’t get all sappy now,” Ryan says with a grin, eyes bright and happy. He’s not looking toward Keith, but Keith is smiling at him anyway, eyes tracing over his features as he speaks. He’s beautiful, tall and broad-shouldered. Even slouching on an old couch, it’s impossible to deny his beauty. 

 

Keith feels something weird in his chest, and it’s not until later when the conversation dies down and they begin to nod off, one by one over boxes of pizza and raing metals, that Keith is able to place the odd feeling. 

 

It feels like — right now with Shiro asleep and drooling on the couch, head bent awkwardly back and pressed against Keith from knee to thigh to hip to shoulder, and Kinkade on the other side, head having fallen onto Keith’s shoulder, Acxa beside him, curled into the corner of the couch and flipping through an old paperback. It feels like what he’s experiencing right now, right at this very moment, might just very well be a beginning to something unforgettable. He longs to live in this forever, in comfort and ease and newfound friends. 

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

It’s late. It’s always late. 

 

They’re back in the city after a brief escapade to a lake a few hours beyond the suburbs, where Keith had sat beside Shiro, pressed together from thigh to shoulder, talking until their voices grew hoarse. The trip had marked many of Keith’s firsts — first water fight, first time roasting marshmallows, first time sleeping under a sky in which he could truly  _ see _ the stars. Or alternatively, and perhaps the most important event, one that he vows to hold close to his heart for the rest of his life; the first time kissing Shiro.

 

He’s back now though, and the city calls to him as it always has. He sinks back to his place in the city as though he had never left, donning dark leather and folding up the beach clothes: thin T-shirts, swimming trunks, and a stupid, wide-brimmed hat that Shiro had bought him as a joke on the first day out by the lake. 

 

There are no races past the suburbs. There’s no need for them, and anarchy has always remained deep-rooted inside of cities, bubbling up and spilling out onto the paved streets far away from dirt roads and hat-selling shacks. Maybe that’s the real reason why Keith keeps finding himself in the city: the races.

 

It’s his first race in a fortnight. Shiro had arrived at the city almost six months ago to the day, and it’s hard to remember that sometimes when it feels as though their hearts have been intertwined for years; soulmates on their hundredth life, magnets pulling themselves closer to one another despite everything else. 

 

The brief amount of time, a snapshot in the grand scheme of things is good in some aspects. It makes it easier to win races without feeling any guilt.

 

Shiro is behind him, edging closer and closer. Keith throws a glance over his shoulder before leaning over the bike’s handlebars, urging the bike to go faster. The bike’s engine is too loud for Keith’s ears to pick up on the sound of Shiro’s joyous laughter. It’s all right. He saw it on his face, and he knows the feeling — it’s mirrored deep within his own chest. 

 

His surroundings blur past him as he re-focuses his attention on the street before him. 

He loses himself in the feel of flying, and he doesn’t think that he’d ever be able to give this up, not even for the world. 

 

He wins by a hair, and Allura’s usual praise rings through his ears. Ryan claps him on the back good-naturedly and then he’s off with Acxa, fixing up the damaged bikes from the night. It’s at times like these, more than anything else, where Keith feels as though he’s standing stationary and the entirety of the world is spinning around him, like he’s at the centre of it, motionless and everything continues playing out before him, not waiting for him to catch up. He lets it happen, rolling down from the adrenaline high.

He likes the fast-paced atmosphere and grabs a beer, watching it happen. Ulaz and the other med workers are patching people up just inside the garage, and Keith waves a hand at him when he looks up for a second, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. He grins easily and waves back, before resuming his work. There had only been one crash on the course this go-around. Someone had swerved too sharply to avoid the pile of cinder blocks that Keith had gone over and took out another rider when they couldn’t get their hoverbike straight. They finished the race though, with nothing more serious than a series of abrasions and bruises. 

 

Keith re-focuses his gaze around the yard; Allura is still talking business, and Shiro — all windblown and gorgeous — is sitting by his own bike, talking animatedly to Ryan and Acxa as they work.

 

It’s here that Keith feels most comfortable. Yes, the lake had been a very welcome escape, of course, but this feeling is different. He’s content here, all of his pent-up energy that used to lead to life-ruining anger management issues is easily transferred into the heart of the city, the races and the bar fights. It’s not glorious by any means, but he’s able to call it home, and in a world like this that counts for a lot. 

 

It’s later that same night, when neon lights reflect into puddles on the paved sidewalk Keith grabs at Shiro thro ugh a haze of smoke and crowds him up against the Garage’s brick wall. He’s sweaty, and his hair is messy, rain-soaked and wind-strewn. It was a half-hour race after a suffocating day.

 

Acxa was right the other day, when she said that Keith loved the challenge. It makes the win taste that much sweeter. He races for the adrenaline of it all, for the rush of endorphins. Live fast, die young. 

 

“Keith,” Shiro says, his hands tangling through Keith’s hair.

 

“Less talking.” 

 

“No — listen.” 

 

“Shiro, please.” They haven’t done so much as kiss since that day at the lake, when the barriers that had been carefully crafted between them evaporated like the city in the rearview mirror. Shiro gets a hand on Keith’s shoulder and another on his waist.

 

And he says, “What do you want from this?” Because he’s seen the people Keith brings home. They never stay the night. He lets Keith pull away from him, watches the confusion and then the certainty wash over his features. 

“I thought you knew. All I want is — is you, Shi. Just you. However you’ll have me.” 

 

There’s something about Shiro that Keith can’t put his finger on. Something that Keith has never been able to see within anybody else. It’s a characteristic that belongs solely to Shiro, and Keith is drunk on it. 

 

Shiro goes pliant under Keith’s hands, and falls back against the brick wall, tilting his head back and groaning when Keith’s lips press against his exposed neck. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

There’s a clean cut severing Before and After. 

 

The Before is the night with the neon lights and a promise whispered somewhere between a brick wall and the sheets. The Before is then and everything that preceded those events on that warm, stormy day. The After begins the next day. The After begins when Keith is walking through the city. It’s late but not yet dark. The streets are quiet. 

 

The political climate is a certifiable trainwreck. Currently ruled by a totalitarian state and with a general disregard for human rights of any kind, it’s no wonder why the entire country is in shambles, torn to bits with no hope of rebuilding after a war so long that life before the fighting began was spoken of like some sort of fairytale-like legend. 

There’s rumors, of course, of what the government is really after. Some say total universal domination throughout the known galaxies. Some say simply world domination, re-building over the scorched and charred land that used to be huge powerhouses of empires, ruined by the Atomic Crises. The fallout and nuclear radiation just kept taking and taking and taking — but all that land is valuable, and with the right tech could potentially be built on again. 

 

There’s conspiracy theory upon conspiracy theory, though very few of them actually hold any concrete evidence. 

 

But there’s a few things that Keith knows for sure. The smartest and more acclaimed scientists have been taken. There is a section of land that is free of radiation but has not been built upon despite the growing homeless population. 

 

Everybody’s hiding something. 

 

There’s a strangled yell. Keith stops dead in his tracks. He knows he shouldn’t follow the sound, but there’s a pull in his chest and a flame of anger that quickly turns into a rageful monster, clawing its way through his lungs, boiling his blood. He can’t go any closer — he’s on the wanted list, and his type of extracurricular, protesting hoverbike racing is punishable by death. 

 

He’d been caught once during his second ever race, new in the city and aching to prove himself as someone worth having a future. If it wasn’t for Acxa and her obsession with martial arts, he never would have been able to escape the law enforcers. After a public arrest warrant was published across the entire country, Keith sought refuge at Alluras garage. She took him in quickly, and joined by Acxa and Ryan Kinkade, they made their own sort of family. 

 

He hears a scream, and it’s fading, cut off at the end, sobs of protest dimming. 

 

Keith closed his eyes. He breathes in the night air, and his hands ache. He gets to the entrance of the alleyway. He watched, eyes burning, as a kid not much older than himself gets dragged off, kicking and screaming.

 

When he gets back to the garage, he can barely breathe through his anger.  

“Keith,” Ryan says, standing up from the couch and moving forwards, stopping a few feet short, unsure. “What happened?” 

 

“I need to punch something,” he says, through grit teeth. “Is Acxa around?” 

 

“No, she and Allura went to Mira’s club. They won’t be back ‘till late.” 

 

“Fuck.” His breathing is ragged, eyes wide. He’s felt anger before, he knows anger. But this is different. Anger is on the surface, clear-cut and the cause for the adrenaline that races through his veins, coiled tightly and ready, waiting for the trigger to be pulled; waiting to spring. He can control anger, and he can easily use it to fuel something productive, he can channel it into his racing. 

 

But this is different, it’s a towering rage, clouding his mind and flashing his world into scarlet hues. It’s frenzied, uncontrollable, and he has to fight with his body to stay still, to not run out of the garage and get his hands around the nearest law enforcer’s neck. He has a deep, inhumane craving to break something. Someone. 

 

“Steady,” Ryan says, quietly, too close to a plea. “We can go upstairs — blow off some steam.”

 

“No — I can’t even  _ think  _ about sex right now.” 

 

“Talk to me.” 

 

“Let me try to beat you up.” 

 

“You can try.” 

 

Ryan shrugs his jacket off and grabs a strip of cloth off the counter, wrapping his wrists quickly. Keith pushes the couch to the side of the room and pulls down a couple of mats. He bounces up and down on the balls of his feet and falls into stance as soon as Ryan’s feet his the mat. 

 

He keeps hearing the scream and the muffled ‘no no no no no no no please, God. I have a family! A sister! Let me go!’ 

 

Ryan barely gets his block up before Keith is attacking. He’s a whirl of motion, aiming high and then landing a sharp jab to Ryan’s abdomen with his other hand. He kicks out his knees and waits mere picoseconds for Ryan to get up before he’s all over him again, hitting him where it hurts with deadly precision.

Ryan gets a few good swings in too, but Keith’s a flurry of movement and Ryan’s huge frame makes it impossible for him to keep up. The hits he does land are hard though, and they send Keith reeling across the mats, wiping at his brow with the back of his hand and grinning like a wolf. 

 

They stop later, when hours have passed and the rage in Keith’s system has worked its way down. Shiro comes by, and Keith is pretty sure that Ryan had texted him an SOS but he has no concrete evidence to back his theory. Shiro throws Keith a bottle of water and kneels down to pull off Keith’s boots while he takes a sip of the water. 

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Keith says, uncomfortably shifting on the couch. 

 

“I know.” 

 

Ryan sits down on the edge of the coffee table, an apple in hand and an assessing look to his eyes. “Now are you gonna talk?” 

 

Keith sighs, low and drawn out. Exhausted. He talks because if he doesn’t now, then between Shiro and Ryan, they’ll get it out of him later. Best just to do it more or less on his terms. He has an illusion of control here, helped by the fact that he spent the last few hours kicking Ryan’s ass. 

 

“I saw someone get taken. They were screaming and trying to get away but I couldn’t do anything to help. It’s fucked up.” 

 

Shiro slides in beside him, and it feels better somehow to know that he’s not alone in this.

 

“That’s awful,” Shiro says, “but if you had intervened then you would have been taken too, so.” 

 

“I know.” Keith runs a hand through his hair. “But don’t we have to do something? These people are falling off the goddamn map.”

 

“Watch your words,” Ryan says just as Shiro says, “Be careful.”

 

“The walls don’t have ears!” 

 

“You’re suggesting vigilantism,” Shiro says. There’s no disdain in his voice. It’s laced through with confusion more than anything else.

“I can’t do nothing!” Keith says, borderline shouting. “It’s bullshit! People are dying and everybody’s too scared or stoned out of their goddamn, tiny little minds to give even a little bit of a fuck! I know that the races are a beacon of hope, and there’s some other people doing some really good thing out there but nobody is directly standing up, everything we do is buried in the shadows!” 

 

“So, what? You want to be a superhero? Keith, this isn’t a comic book. There aren’t any heroes here, and the good people don’t always win. What if you die, what then?”

 

“I just — fuck, I saw a kid being literally  _ dragged  _ away. He was  _ begging,  _ Shi.” Keith looks towards him and sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees and turning his eyes towards Ryan. “Ry, c’mon. You know how bad it is.” 

 

“It’s not your fault.”

 

“But I-”

 

“No. It’s not your fault, full stop. There are no ‘buts’. It’s the government's fault,” Ryan says, “not yours.” 

 

“If I do this — If I fight this, if I start something — will you stand by me?” 

 

There’s a pause that lasts for an eternity too long. Keith fidgets, rolling his shoulders back and taking another sip of water. The lights are dim, and Keith doesn’t know what he’ll do if he has to go forward without Shiro and Ryan by his side. The city is lonely, yes, but that means that the friends and loved ones you meet along the way are just that much more important. 

 

The sigh that Shiro lets out hits Keith hard, like a sucker punch to the gut. 

 

But when Shiro does speak, the hesitation that Keith had been dreading is nowhere to be found. 

 

“Without question.” He says it calmly, thoughtfully, but his eyes are a whirlwind of emotion. Keith can’t stop the watery chuckle that escapes his chest, and Shiro quickly rubs a hand across Keith’s upper back, kneading at the muscles coiled tight.

“Thank you.” Keith exhales, leaning into the touch. It’s impossible to ward off the rising tide of  _ feelings,  _ and he lets it consume him, eyes rapidly filling with tears. 

 

“I’m in too,” Ryan says when Keith’s eyes catch on his. “Of course I’m in too.”  

 

Relief flows through Keith’s veins, and he breathes deeply for the first time in a long while. This has been a long time coming, this night in particular simply serving as the tipping point to the inevitable catastrophe, the melting point between the  _ before  _ and the  _ after.  _

 

“Let’s do this, then,” he says. “Let’s save this dead-end city.” And he knows that he’s never felt this grateful, for it’s all-consuming.

 

“Yeah, let’s save it,” Shiro says finally, a spark of something in his voice that Keith can’t quite place but if he had to categorize it, it would fall somewhere near the general ballpark of  _ love. _

 


	7. Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sun streams through the window, and Keith sinks back into Shiro.

 

Morning reaches the horizon with bright, warm hues, bathing the world in gold, and Keith watches it from his window, sitting on the edge of his bed, curtains thrown open wide and window cracked to allow in the faintest hints of a breeze that sways through the trees. It’s quiet, and Shiro is asleep in the bed that Keith can’t seem to get comfortable in. 

 

He caught a few hours of sleep, and that’s better than nothing. He’s no stranger to insomnia, rolling from one side of the bed to the other, eyes tired and heavy but mind too restless to give way to sleep. He’s been staring out the window since he woke up, having carefully extracted himself from Shiro’s hold. 

 

Shiro, who clings to him in bed as though he’s terrified about what may happen if his grip ever loosens, like he thinks that maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t hold on tight enough Keith will disappear again without so much as a fleeting backwards glance. It’s strange, the groove that he and Keith have fallen into over the past few days, ever since that night that they spent together and the next morning where Keith had woken up with a pounding headache and Shiro had said —

 

— Shiro had said something. It’s hard to think about. It’s confusing and scary and Keith accepts it only because he has to; because there’s no alternative. There’s no scenario where everything works out so he forces himself to accept it, to acknowledge it, and then to continue living on. 

 

He holds Shiro closer at night. He keeps him in his sight during the day, and when Shiro drops something or his hands shake too much to hold a glass of water steady as he tries to drink, Keith will help him silently without being asked.  _ “If there’s anything that you want to do…”  _ Keith had said, a few days earlier,. _ “...before, y’know. Tell me.” _

 

Before you die, he had meant to say. Before you die, let’s check some things off a bucket list — let’s make some memories together before it’s too late and everything comes crashing down. Shiro had been still for a moment before saying, carefully and slowly,  _ “All I want is to be here.”  _ He had shaken his head lightly and clapped a hand over Keith’s shoulder.  _ “With you.”  _

 

The sun is rising, and Keith wishes that he’d gotten more sleep. In the bed behind him, Shiro stirs, rustling the sheets as he reaches for Keith, curling a hand around his hip and trying to pull him back into the warmth. 

 

Sun streams through the window, and Keith sinks back into Shiro. 

 

The physical intimacy is something that Keith doesn’t even attempt to argue against. There’s lines of course, unspoken but still prominent. If Keith tries to pull away, Shiro will let him. If Shiro doesn’t want Keith hanging around him all the time, eyes tracking his every move, he’ll tell Keith to back off and Keith will, even with some reluctance. They don’t kiss. There’s fear rooted in the things that they don’t do, and maybe that’s why they avoid them. Keith can’t find it within himself to be bothered about the lack of anything that follows the normal guidelines of  _ romantic  _ relationship because that’s not what they have here. 

 

He can’t allow himself to believe that’s what they have. Maybe he’s a coward for that, but if Shiro —

 

If Shiro leaves then Keith wants to minimize the damage it will cause. So he holds Shiro at arms length and tightly against his chest all in the same stride. Shiro knows this, Keith can tell. There’s a question always on his lips, wondering to what end will Keith go to spare himself more pain. He doesn’t speak of this outloud, and to that Keith is grateful. How things are now — it works. It’s not glamorous, it’s cowardly and full of desperation, but it works.

 

They make it to Hunk’s cafe by midmorning, the early morning sunlight morphing into a bright glare high up in the sky. The feeling of Shiro’s arms wrapped tight around Keith’s midsection on the bike ride over to the town is something that Keith could grow addicted to all too easily, he reckons.

 

Hunk’s happy to see them, greeting them with a bright smile and waving at them from behind the counter. “Good morning! You came just in time, cinnamon buns just came out of the oven.” 

 

“Best cinnamon buns in the whole universe,” Keith says, glancing over to Shiro who’s sitting at the window table, massaging his left wrist with a frown.

 

“Thanks,” Hunk says, grinning. “What can I get you for breakfast?” 

 

“Eggs, bacon and hashbrowns? You know how I like them. The same for Shiro, I guess. And some of those cinnamon buns.” He fishes a few rumpled bills out of his pocket. “I’ll pay for whatever Blaytz is having, too.” 

 

Hunk raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have to.” 

 

“I want to,” Keith says quickly and lowers his voice so that only Hunk can hear. “How’s his husband doing?” 

 

Hunk grimaces. “The treatments didn’t work. The only reason he’s here now and not at home is because his husband won’t let him cook in his kitchen, but he needs food so...”

 

“God.” Keith sighs. “What a shitty situation.” 

 

“Yeah. We all do what we can, though. How’s the hotel?” 

 

“Still standing. Supposedly there’s a tour coming by this weekend, but we’ll see what happens.”

 

“That’s good,” Hunk says, pouring out some coffee into two identical mugs. “Maybe it’ll start to get busier, now that the summer’s really here.”

 

Keith allows a laugh to escape his chest, but it’s void of any humor that it could have been holding. “Sure. Yeah, let’s try to hope for that.”

 

“Y’know, this used to be quite the popular little town. Westmoor was always busy,” Hunk says.

 

“I’ve heard. It’s hard to believe now. There’s only a few of you left.” 

 

“Parents ran away here when they were sixteen, got married a year before the war started and had me by the time it ended. I’ve lived here my whole life. Feels wrong to abandon the town now after so long.” 

 

For Keith, being so attached to a place is a hard concept to grasp. He’s always been moving from place to place, especially in the years leading up to his settlement in the city and then later, before he fell out of the city and landed in Westmoor.

 

“This place needs people like you,” Keith settles on after a silence that almost stretches on for too long. “It would be long gone without you, that much is for sure.” 

 

“I’m just the cook.” 

 

“And the engineer. Practically the mayor, too.”

 

Hunk’s the type of person to give out free meals if someone’s going through a rough patch. He keeps tabs on the people in the town, watching out for them and doing the heavy-lifting. With the majority of the population reaching or surpassing seventy years, Hunk’s the one they go to for help during the harvesting or calving seasons. 

 

Hunks says, “I just do what anybody would do in my position.” And Keith smiles at him because this world is cold, and Hunk’s the fireplace that everybody flocks to when the chill gets too strong to hide away from. He’s like a mother hen, Keith thinks while taking a sip of his coffee, flavour exploding across his tongue — Hunk had made it just the way that Keith likes it, just the right amount of cream. Mother hen indeed. 

 

“I’ll go make your food,” Hunk says, tapping a hand against the counter. He hesitates, and Keith watches as Hunk tips between staying silent or properly acknowledging Keith’s quickly-spoken praise. “Thanks, though. It’s the least I can do for this place — for these people.” 

 

Keith goes over to the window table that Shiro had claimed and passes him a mug of coffee.

 

“This is a nice place,” Shiro comments, wrapping his hands around the mug. 

 

Keith hums noncommittally. 

 

“Good place to live out the end of days,” Shiro says dryly. 

 

Keith snorts. “Yeah. It’s a good place to disappear.” 

 

“Ah, yes. That’s why it took so long to track you down.”

 

“This place hides people.” 

 

“And yet here you are. And here am I.” 

 

“Must be some sort of miracle.” 

 

When Shiro laughs, it’s a light sort of sound, spreading out across the cafe, and Keith can do nothing except bask in its light. If he could, he would capture this sound, keep it safe a tucked away somewhere in his chest where it could not be affected by the trials and tribulations of the harsh claws of life.

 

They eat through a quiet, simple chatter that Keith never really imagined to ever be part of his life. Falling back into step by Shiro’s side is almost too easy, and Keith can feel those old, affectionate emotions swirling just beneath his sternum. 

 

Keith grasps at the time that they are experiencing together because it seems as though it’s slipping through his fingertips like desert sand.

 

“Do you ever feel like — like you could stay in one moment of time for the rest of existance and be happy with that?” Keith asks when their plates are free of food and the last dregs of coffee are room temperature. 

 

He had said it more offhandedly than he’d care to admit, but Shiro answers with his heart on his sleeve and his soul pouring into each of his words. 

 

“Of course. Right now,” he says, and it almost gets to Keith, almost causes a permanent hole in his chest, the way it hits him like a knife. He smiles. 

 

Shiro smiles, and it’s like the room is lighting up. 

 

Shiro smiles, and the world has meaning. 

 

Shiro smiles, and the miniscule part of Keith that was holding distance between him and Shiro cracks, shatters down the middle, and disappears.

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

“What’s his name?” Shiro asks later when they’re standing in the middle of a field, a massive buckskin horse standing before them. 

 

“I call him Misha,” Keith says. “Lotor — his owner — is kinda out of the picture. It’s mostly Pidge or me who comes out here and makes sure they have food and water now, y’know?” 

 

“Nice to meet you, Misha,” Shiro says. 

 

Keith laughs, and the sun beats down on their backs. 

 

“Have you ever ridden him?”

 

“God, no,” Keith says quickly. “Have you seen him? He’s huge. He could kill me.” 

 

“...You used to ride hoverbikes through the city. There’s nothing more dangerous than that,” Shiro says, stepping closer to the horse and holding out a hand, which Misha sniffs at. “My grandpa used to have horses. I rode them sometimes — it was fun.”

 

“Why don’t you ride him, then?” 

 

“I will if you will,” Shiro says. 

 

“Live fast, die young,” Keith jokes, but the statement has always rang true for the both of them.

 

“Exactly,” Shiro affirms. “Is there saddles anywhere? Tack of some sort?”

 

“I dunno,” Keith says, wandering closer to Misha’s shoulder and stroking the beige fur. Then, in a fit of bravery, “Lift me up.” 

 

“Like, in general?” 

 

“No, on the horse. Dummy.” But Keith can’t knock the smile off of his face. 

 

“You sure?” 

 

“Yeah. Do it now before I lose my edge.”

 

And Shiro says, “Fine, anything for you.” There’s a joke hidden in there, spoken in the light syllables and flippant tone.  _ Anything for you,  _ Keith thinks, turning the words over in his mind, testing out how it sounds in a different sort of context. Then,  _ Shiro followed you out into the middle of nowhere while you ran.  _

 

Shiro laces his fingers together, creating a step for Keith. 

 

Keith steps into his hand, and then swings his other leg over Misha’s back. 

 

Misha’s body tenses, muscles growing taut under Keith’s thighs. “Uh,” Keith says, eloquently. “It feels like he’s going to run.” 

 

“Hold on,” Shiro says, laughing a bit, “to his mane.” 

 

Keith grabs a handful of black mane and grins down at Shiro, who looks small from this vantage point. Beneath him, he can feel Misha relaxing. He must have just startled him, it doesn’t feel like he’s going to run away any more.

 

“How do I make him walk?” Keith asks. 

 

“Squeeze your lower leg a little bit,” Shiro says and stays right next to Misha as he takes a step forwards. 

 

Misha takes long, powerful steps. “Holy shit,” Keith says. Then, “Faster?” 

 

“That’s the Keith I remember.” Shiro grins. “Adrenaline junkie.” 

 

Keith squeezes his legs a bit more against Misha’s sides, and the horse responds right away, raising his head slightly and walking with more purpose. “I think he likes it,” Keith says. He’s swaying side to side with every one of Misha’s steps, and he has to really focus holding on tight to the horse’s mane so that he doesn’t slip off. 

 

“You look good up there.” Shiro affirms. “You’re a natural.” 

 

“Thanks.” Keith’s voice is smaller than he’d care to admit, and his face flushes a little. He loosens his hold on the black mane and runs his hands down over Misha’s neck, petting the hair warmed by the sun. Misha slows and then stops as Keith leans forwards,over his neck, burying his face in his mane. 

 

The sun beats down on his back, and Keith would be okay to stay right here, like this, for the rest of his life.

 

~☆✧★✧☆~

 

It’s late by the time that they get back to the hotel. Kolivan had given Keith the day off, and he and Shiro had spent hours upon hours together, basking in the glow of the sun in the fields and then trekking through a wooded area, twigs snapping underfoot. Shiro had said, “I want to see your world” and Keith had shown him the nature, dried up as it is, but it still holds a degree of beauty. 

 

The fresh air is good. 

 

“It’s nice,” Shiro says, settling down in the long grass beside Keith on the lawn, the hotel stretching up to reach the sky behind them. “There’s no smog out here.” 

 

“Yeah. Imagine that: there’s someplace in the world that’s… untouched.” Keith sighs. The stars aren’t out yet — it’s too bright, the sun barely having dipped below the horizon. His stomach grumbles. He should be heading inside, making something for him and Shiro to eat, but he can’t tear himself away from what’s happening here and now. 

 

Because Shiro’s here, and the sky is clean, and the earth is warm beneath his palms, and the tight coil of anxiety that had made its home within his chest cavity has begun to uncoil. 

 

“Thank you,” Shiro says moments later. He touches his fingertips to the back of Keith’s hand, and then presses his palm there for a second before retracting and massaging his wrist with his other hand. “For being here.” 

 

_ For letting me stay.  _ It goes unsaid, but the meaning is there, woven between and through Shiro’s words. 

 

“‘Course I’m here,” Keith says, haltingly. “For you.” 

 

“It means a lot,” Shiro continues. “I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to find you. And I know — I know I don’t have much time left. Hell, the entire world doesn’t have much time left. But for what it’s worth…” Shiro takes a deep breath, and Keith isn’t sure if he wants to hear the next words spoken. 

 

“For what it’s worth, if I was going to die beside anyone, I’m glad it’s you. Because — Keith. Well. I’ve said it before.” Shiro laughs nervously, and Keith tries swallowing the invisible lump in his throat. “I don’t know why I’m scared to say this,” Shiro says, and when Keith looks over, his head is ducked, white forelock falling over his eyes. He takes a deep breath, and then says, “I love you, Keith.”

 

Shiro has said this before, Keith reminds himself. Shiro has said this very same phrase before, and Keith survived through that so he can survive through this. But he feels the words physically. They dig into his sternum and hit him in the heart like a semi truck. He tells himself to get his shit together, to remember to breathe. 

 

“Hey, breathe,” Shiro says, then there his hand is again, pressing against the top of Keith’s. 

 

“I…” Keith starts, and he means to say  _ I love you, too,  _ but the words get lodged in his throat, and he’s not going to cry, not right now. 

 

So he grabs onto Shiro’s arm and yanks him into a bone-crushing hug. Shiro’s muscles tense for a split second, resisting, but then he sinks into Keith, returning the embrace. Keith has never been the most eloquent with words. Actions are supposed to speak louder, anyway. 

“You… you — too.” He manages to get out, eyes closed and voice breaking, muffled by Shiro’s shoulder. 

 

They break apart eventually, pulling back. They remain close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of the other. 

 

Time passes different for Keith when he’s graced with Shiro’s presence. It goes by so fast, emotions coming and going. They fall together and then fall apart, they pull each other closer and then pretend to let go. It’s like a dance, their feet never missing a beat — and when one of them does stumble, the other is right there by their side, hand outstretched. 

 

Keith runs his fingers through dewy grass and breathes deeply, clearer than he has for years. 

 

“Hi.” The voice is small. Tired. Pidge. “Mind if I join you guys?”

 

“Of course,” Shiro says immediately, offering her a smile so bright that it could put the sun to shame. 

 

She sits off to Keith’s left. Shiro is on his other side, close enough to almost count as leaning against him. Crickets chirp, creating a cascading background, the sound ebbing and flowing. It’s silent, but it’s comfortable. 

 

Shiro sits up straighter, frowning and flexing his right arm. It’s spasming, and Shiro bites at his bottom lip, forehead furrowing and eyes narrowing. He says, rather eloquently, “Shit,” and Keith grabs at his arm gently. He massages Shiro’s palm without a word and swipes his other hand through Shiro’s hair, pushing his forelock away from his eyes. 

 

“Everything alright?” Pidge asks, and Keith knows that he didn’t imagine the exhaustion in her voice. 

 

“Could ask you the same thing,” he says offhandedly. She glares at him, defiant. 

 

Shiro seems to miss this exchange, wincing as he does and saying, “Oh, y’know. It’s nothing too bad. Just my muscles revolting against being alive. Which is fun.” His words are halted, strung together between words of pain. 

 

The entire day had been about living — about getting to know each other again, about celebrating the fact that they are  _ alive.  _ Death is catching up swiftly; Keith can feel it breathing down his neck, a dark abyss. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Is there anything I can do?” 

“Nah,” Shiro says, ducking his head into Keith’s shoulder, breaths coming in pants. “I’ve made my peace with it.” 

 

“Are there treatments?” Pidge asks. She’s had her fair share of sorrows; she understands this. Keith runs a hand down Shiro’s spine. 

 

“Not realistically,” Shiro says, and then, “World’s ending and all that, anyway.” 

 

“So this is where you’ve chosen to spend your last days? In some dead-end hotel?” She says, quietly, respectfully. 

 

“There’s nowhere better to be,” Shiro says, after a moment’s pause. 

 

“Bullshit.” Pidge says, “you could be by the ocean.” 

 

“That would be nice,” Shiro says consideringly. “I used to live by the ocean, growing up.” 

 

“I went once.” When Pidge speaks, her voice is laden with fondness. “I was seven. Mom took Matt and I to a little cabin on the beach. We went swimming every day — ” She breaks off for a second, chuckling, “ —W we had to cut the trip a day short, though. Matt stepped on a sea urchin.” She stretches, rolling her shoulder blades back. “Lots has changed since then. That was uh — pretty soon after the war.”

 

“The beaches aren’t where they used to be.” Shiro fills in for her, after she falls into silence. “I tried finding my grandfather’s farm, before I came out here. The whole thing was gone. All of it.” 

 

Keith runs his fingertips along Shiro’s back. He’s listening half-heartedly, anxiety pooling back into his stomach. Shiro is hurting. 

 

“There’s no saving this world,” Shiro says softly. 

 

“The government is trying.” 

 

“Well, they’re failing. They’re doing it all wrong — they’re tearing down communities in the vain belief that they’ll be able to save the entire human race. But who will be left after all of that, hm?” Shiro murmurs. The fight isn’t really there in his voice. 

 

Keith speaks up. “People with money. That’s how it’s always been, isn’t it?” He can’t help but remember how it was after the war, living with his mom and uncle in a shabby house that was minimalistic but not by choice. 

 

“They took my brother,” Pidge says, angry, the light in her eyes — the fury, the passion — not having been diminished by the world’s tight hold. “They took Matt from me.”

 

Shiro slumps fully into Keith’s arms, sinking into his body, into his warmth. 

 

And Keith —

 

Keith doesn’t know when his anger about the world turned dull. It’s not acceptance, his attitude towards it all. But he’s so tired of the fighting. 

 

“My parents died,” Pidge is saying, which is good. She’s getting it all out. “And Matt was just trying to do whatever he could for us. Food on the table, some sort of shelter. We were still grieving and they  _ took him.  _ I waited and waited and waited for him but he never came back.” Her breathing is ragged. She’s angry, but she’s sinking. “I hate it.” Her voice trembles, but it’s easily recognizable as pure fury. 

 

There’s no fixing it; no going back in time. That thought does nothing to dull or reassure the pain, though. 

 

“He was the best in the medical field, y’know?” Pidge continues. “Saved people that other doctors wouldn’t even see, right? And they just took him. Grabbed him off the street like it was nothing.” 

 

Keith reaches for her, squeezing her shoulder, trying to offer support. It falls flat, but she doesn’t give him a pitying look. It’s horrible, seeing Pidge like this. She isn’t one to flaunt any sort of emotion other than defiance at the best of times. She’s a badass and the smartest person that Keith’s ever met, but she’s still vulnerable like the rest of them. 

 

“Hey, Keith,” Shiro says, from Keith’s side. His voice rings strong; the pain must have passed. “How do you feel about one more mission?” 

 

Keith’s breath hitches in his throat. A  _ mission.  _ The word sparks adrenaline in his veins, and it races through his blood, his heart pumping faster. Crickets surround them, and Keith blinks at Shiro, gauging his body language. 

 

He’s open. Hopeful. He raises his chin in a way that’s close to a challenge and that’s  _ fine  _ because Keith may not know many things in this messed-up world, but he can sure as hell understand a challenge for what it is and react accordingly, reacting automatically. 

 

_ Suit up, soldier. Follow orders. Do you think you can handle this?  _

 

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Keith asks just to make sure. 

 

“He’s a medic,” Shiro says, quietly. “And Pidge’s brother. We could be killing two birds with one stone.”

 

“I thought you were fine with it,” Keith says, “Death, that is.” 

 

“I guess that maybe I just realized that I’ve got a whole lot to live for, Red.” 

 

Keith breathes clearly, the lump in his throat gone completely. His hand finds Shiro’s and he laces their fingers together, tugging Shiro’s hand up to his mouth and kissing it all gentle-like. He has to bite his lip to stop his eyes from filling with tears. 

 

Pidge is staring at them, wide-eyed. Then, her eyes narrow and her mouth curves up into a wolf’s smile. She says, “We’re going to need a team.” 

 

And Shiro — a spark of  _ life  _ igniting his entire body, practically glowing from it — says, “We’re going to have to go back to the city.” 

 

Keith breathes deeply, and stares at the star-studded sky. He’s not sure if it’s fear or excitement that is curling up in his stomach, because  _ this is it.  _

 

This is everything that he had been too scared for so long to hope for.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm super interested to see what you think about this fic! Please leave a comment, feedback means the world to me.
> 
> You can find me on:  
> Twitter @castellation_  
> Tumblr @cas-tellation


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